({  TI/HO  w  Safroni-Middleton,"  asks  H. 
yy    T.,  Gladstone,  N.  J.,  who  has  been 
reading    "A    Vagabond's  Odyssey" 
(Dodd,  Mead),  and  is  caught  by  the  'vistful 
charm  of  the  man  behind  the  book.  He  ivantt 
to  know  Ki-hat  has  he  done,  to  write  like  that  f 
What  has  he  not?    At  fourteen  he  ran  away 
to  sea,  to  the  Far  East,  San  Francisco,  Cal- 
lao,   New   Guinea,    around    and    around   the 
world,   teaching  himself  to   play   the   violin 
in   the  leisure  of  long  voyages,   playing  in 
orchestras   of   seaboard   towns   wherever   he 
might  come  to  land.    He  played  well  enough 
to  be  first  violin  for  the   Carl  Rosa  Opera 
Company  for  a  season  or  two,  and  forty  of 
his  compositions  for  military  band  or  orches- 
tra have  been  accepted  and  produced.  When 
the    gold-fever    broke    out    in    Australia    he 
joined  the  rush;   this    left    a    precipitate  of 
verse,   a  volume  of  "Bush  Songs"  published 
in  London  by  Long,  and  praised  by  Henley. 
Then  he  drifted  to  the  Sooth  Seas  and  sailed 
them    over   even   to   the   then    remote   Mar- 
quesans,  and  came  to  live  with  R.  L.  S.  in 
Samoa  in  the  Vailima  days.    This  you  will 
find   recorded  in  his  confessions  of  a  life  at 
sea,   in  Australia,   and   amid   the  islands   of 
the      Pacific,     "Sailor     and     Beach-Comber" 
(Richards;   London),  the  story    of    his    life 
from   1885   to  1890.     "Wind-dark   Seas  and 
Tropic  Skies"  was  published  here  by  Dodd, 
Mead,  but  is  now  out  of  print.     Doran  pub- 
lishes "South  Sea  Foam,"  a  luscious  combi- 
nation of  Dichtung  and   Wahrheit  with  the 
former,   as  usual    providing  the  flavor,   and 
his     romance    "Sestrina,"     while    Lippincott 
publishes  his  "Gabrielle    of    the    Lagoons." 
His   picture   was   in   the  London   Bookman's 
Christmas   number,   a   fine  grizzled   warrior 
with  a  twist  to  the  face  like  Don  Quixote's. 
Doran  has  much  more  than  this  on  file  about 
him  and  will  tell  you  if  you  send  for  infor- 
mation. 


P.  3 


OF  SOUTH  SEAS 


NATIVE  ACCOUNT  OF  PON  APE'S  RUINS. 


[This   is   the    fifth    and    la*t    of    a   series   or 
m's     r.ew     mandatory    islands 
iff  correspondent  of  The 
11-  east,    who 
11   of   the  in- 
lands  with"  Japanese   officials.] 

o   brothers,   Oleosiba  and   Oleosaba, 
•  •   than  a    thousand  miles  across 
oe    from   Yap   and   bo- 
Bald    tho    aged 

(narrator  v  me  the  story  of 

these  ;    divina    power," 

ho  continued,  "and  asteexl  the  gods  to 
build  them  a  city.  Next  morning  tne 
walls  and  temples  and  palaces  of  stone 
were  standing  at  Nan-matal.  Their  de- 
scendants ruled  over  Ponape  for  hun- 
dreds of  years  and  another  city  of  stone 
came  down  out  of  the  cloud*  for  them  on 
the  hills  near  Roni-kiti. 

when   Janteleur   was   the   only 
king  over  all  Ponape,  Ijokeleksl,  who  was 
a   chief   In   Kusaif,   ca,roe  ZOO  miles   in   a 
(great  war   canoe   holding   3:13   men   to   at- 
Uack  Nan-matal.       In     the     dim  light   of 
!  morning  they  saw  the  palm  trees  stand- 
ing on  top  of  the  mountains  and  thought 
they   were  men   and   were  afraid.       They 
went   back     but     returned     after     a  few 
months  and  circled  the  island.  Again  they 
wore  afraid   of  the  palm  trees  *nd  went 
home.   They  came   a  third  time  and  this 
time  came  close  to  the  island  near  Roui- 
kiti  and  did  not  see  any  men.  Ijokel«k«l, 
who    was   wise    in    the   know  led  £«    of   old 
women  atd  their  willingness  to  talk,  sent 
his  men  ashore  telling  them:    'If  you  gee 
!    woman   ashore   come    back   and    I 
will  go  and  see  her.' 

"There  wag  an  old  woman  among  those 
tne  men  saw  and  Ijokelekel  went  ashore. 
"That    night    they    talked    and    just    as 
he  dawn  vas  breaking  she  told  him  that 
here  were  not  many  men  in  Ponape  and 
that  only  palm  trees  stood  on  the  moun- 
tain   top.    Ijokelekel    left    and   the    canoe 
went    around    the    island    to    Nan-matal. 
They  fought  with  the  men  in  the  city  all 
the  next  day  and  in  the  dusk  ware  driven 
back  to  their  canoe. 

"It  «WS3*  tied  here,"  added  the  old 
man,  pointing  to  a  map  which  I  had 
spread  under  the  smoky  lantern  In  front 
of  htm.  "They  fought  the  next  day  and 
were  again  driven  back  to  the  canoe. 
1  day  they  attacked  the  city 
again  and  when  the  men  from  Kusaie 
were  being  driven  back  one  of  their 
, soldiers  drove  his  spear  through  his  foot 
into  the  ground  so  that  he  could  not 

run. 

"The  others  fled,  but  he  could  not, 
Seeing  that  he  was  etill  fighting  the 
others  came  hack  and  that  day  captured 

the    city. 

"The   king  was   killed,   Ponape   divided 

into  five   states  and   the   city  never  was 

used   again. 

"The  gods  protect  the  city  which  they 
built.  That  !s  why  it  still  stands.  THeir 
vengeance  overtakes  natives  who  go  into 
the  ruins  and  they  disappear  and  are 
never  seen  again.  When  people  go  to 
the  ruins  in  Roni-kiti  it  thunders  and 
rains,  for  the  gods  do  not  want  it  dis- 
turbed. The  German  governor  dug  up 
some  of  the  bones  of  the  dead  kings 
in  Nan-matal  to  send  to  the  museum  in 
Leipzig  and  the.  nrxt  day  he  died  sud- 
denly. The  stones  must  not  be  disturbed. 


"I  wish  I  could  remember  the?  name  of 
the  soldier  who  stuck  the  spear  through 
his  foot.  Perhaps  I  am  getting  old." 

Then  the  old  man  shouted  a  name 
through  the  thin  bamboo  wall  of  the 
thatch  house.  There. was  shuffling  on  the 
mats  and  the  quick*  step  of  bare  feet 
on  the  smooth  ground.  In  the  dim  light 
of  the  lantern,  outside  the  waist  high 
vralls  of  tlve  tropical  house,  a  woman 
appeared,  thin  lipped,  sharp  eyed,  the 
straight  sbeulders  and  firm  breasts  of  her 
unclothed  body  contrasting  with  the 
threads  of  white  in  her  smooth  black 
hair.  The  man  spoke  some  words  In  the 
harsh  native  vernacular.  The  stern  eyes 
never  flickered. 

"Nanparatak,"  she  said  and  disap- 
peared. That  was  the  name  of  the  Spar-1 
tan  of  Kusaie. 

Such  is  the  native's  story  of  the  famous 
ruins  of  Nan-matal  as  it  was  told  l;i=t 
night  by  a  man  whose  grandfather  waa 
an  American  and  wh®  is  the  product  si 
eerenty  years  of  Christian  teaching.  It 
Is  the  legend  which  the  natives  still  be- 
lieve. Though  scientists  hav»  4elved  an4 
written  they  nave  adduced  no  definite 
story  to  account  for  these  immense  piles 
of  huge  rooks,  bro»d  streets  and  canals 
and  ether  evidences  of  a  civilization 
more  advanced  than  thatch  houses 
shell  knives  which  have  stood  along  th* 
seashore  defying  time  and  storms  for 
centuries.  Nobody  knows  whan  or  bf 
whom  they  were  built. 

Charles  Darwin  said  they  were  built  on 
shore  and  through  the  ages  have  been 
sinking  into  the  sea.  Others  argue  they 
were  a  tropical  Venice.  F.  W.  Christian,  • 
MacMUlan  Brown,  Dr.  Amberg,  H.  F. 
VYiakham  have  written  books  about  them. 
The  Germans  delved  .in  them  and  sent 
costly  expeditions  until  fate  overtook 
Gov.  Berg,  those  who  are  not  supersti- 
tious accepting  the  governor's  nativa 
boy's  explanation  that  it  was  becaus* 
the  official  drank  a  glass  of  water  for  th« 
first  time  on  the  island.  But  the  one  w'ao 
studied  them  axost  was  that  strange 
character  of  the  south  seas  Johan 
Stanislaus  Ktrbary.  lie  took  his  life  in 
1SOG,  but  it  was  his  map,  drawn  in  1S74, 
and  found  in  the  German  arefr/-~---'-l~ 
we  pored  over  last  night. 

The  popular  ofliciaJ  theory  now  is  that 
Japanese  pirates  built  them  in  the  brouza 
Afie.  Go'V.  Okuyama  expects  to  prove  it. 

The  ruins  rise  over  the  shallow  waters 
in  an  area  about  half  a  mile  long  and  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  wide.  There  are  re- 
mains of  sixty-five  buildings,  one  of 
them  with  a  court  at  least  1&5  by  115 
feet.  Basaltic,  hexagonal  blocks,  sonaa 
seven  feet  long,  are  used  in  their  con- 
struction and  thousands  of  men  must 
have  been  employed  on  the  work. 

Smaller  ruins,  though  with  a  larger 
canal,  are  on  Kusaie  island,  while  nearly 
every  hill  in  the  Tnik  atoll  is  *\;r- 
mounted  by  a  crude  circular  stone  fort. 
It  is  evident  that  centuries  before  tbe 
first  modern  discoverers  sighted  tb« 
Carolines  they  had  been  inhabited  by  a 
race  fairly  advanced  in  engineering, 
which  had  vanished  and  whose  arts  luwl 
been  forgo;  JUNIUS  B.  WOOD. 

PC  nape,  Caroline  Islands,  Feb.  11. 


SOUTH    SEA    FOAM 
A.  SAFRONI-MIDDLETON 


SOUTH  SEA   FOAM 

THE   ROMANTIC   ADVENTURES 

OP    A    MODERN    DON    QUIXOTE 

IN     THE     SOUTHERN     SEAS 

BY 

A.    SAFRONI-MIDDLETON 


NEW  X5Jr    YORK 
GEORGE   H.    DORAN   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1920, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


STACK  ANNEX 


?.5 


TO 
G.  B.  S.-M. 


2071.048 


"On  the  open  window-sill  of  the  universal  soul  the  ancient 
aeolian  harp  awakes." — ANDREW  MILLAR,  Robes  of  Pan. 


PREFACE 

THOUGH  the  adventures  recorded  in  this  book  may 
set  up  the  impression  that  I  am  a  kind  of  Don 
Quixote  of  the  South  Seas,  I  do  not  claim  to  have 
sought  to  redress  wrongs  done  to  beauteous  dusky 
maidens.  It  was  the  ardent,  adventurous  spirit  of  youth 
that  brought  me  to  the  side  of  such  original  characters 
as  Fae  Fae,  Soogy,  and  Fanga,  and  gave  me  the  charm- 
ing friendship  of  those  pagan  chiefs  who  have  inspired 
me  to  write  this  book.  It  is  possible  that  many  stay-at- 
homes  will  think  I  have  romanced,  will  think  it  incredible 
that  such  characters  as  I  have  attempted  to  portray  really 
existed.  Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  my  greatest  literary 
effort  in  the  following  pages  has  been  to  keep  to  the 
truth  of  the  whole  matter,  even  though  such  frankness 
should  leave  me,  at  the  end  of  this  volume,  with  a 
blackened  name. 

As  I  have  introduced  several  Polynesian  legends  and 
myths  in  this  book,  I  would  like  to  make  a  few  remarks 
with  reference  thereto.  In  recording  my  memories  of 
Island  folk-lore  I  have  to  use,  of  course,  my  own 
order  of  intelligence — as  compared  with  that  of  the  wild 
people  who  told  the  stories — when  I  attempt  to  recreate 
the  legendary  lore,  the  poetry,  and  the  loveliness  of  the 
natural  world  as  it  must  have  appeared  to  the  imagina- 
tion of  primitive  minds  believing  in  them.  In  doing 
this  I  merely  accept  the  inevitable  transmutation  which 
all  legends  and  myths  of  primitive  peoples  must  undergo 
when  written  down. 

Myths  in  their  earliest  stage  were  the  poetic  babblings 

vii 


Vlll 


PREFACE 


of  the  children  of  nature.  It  is  certain  that  folk-lore 
which  comes  to  us  in  written  form  has  been  subjected 
to  obvious  transformation.  All  creation-myths  and 
subtle  moving  legends  that  are  representative  of  human 
passions  and  yearning,  be  they  from  the  lore  of  the 
ancient  Finns,  Hindoos,  Babylonians,  Japanese,  Egyp- 
tians, or  Greeks,  have  been  completely  transformed 
before  they  reached  us.  Legends  are  told,  retold,  and 
embellished  in  accordance  with  the  storyteller's  notion 
of  what  seems  compatible  with  and  faithful  to  primitive 
conceptions,  until,  out  of  the  imaginative  fires  of  a 
dozen  or  so  narrators,  we  get  the  poetic  picture  which 
the  primitive  mind  probably  conceived,  but  was  unable 
to  express.  There  is  little  doubt,  I  imagine,  that,  if  it 
were  possible  to  trace  our  great  epic  poems  to  their 
remote  original  sources,  we  should  find  them  based  on 
simple  poetic  superstition  which  had  its  origin  in  the 
minds  of  the  lowest  tribes  of  primitive  man.  Thus, 
through  the  influence  of  mind  on  mind,  the  world's 
great  epic,  when  compared  to  that  far-off  original,  will 
resemble  it  as  much  as  the  nightingale's  egg  of  this 
summer  will  resemble  the  full-fledged  bird's  midnight- 
song  to  next  year's  moon. 

So  much  would  I  say  for  my  method  in  writing  my 
reminiscences  of  heathen  fairyland.  As  for  idol- 
worship,  I  have  written  about  it  just  as  O'Hara  and  I 
saw  it  with  our  own  eyes,  distinct  and  solid  as  are  the 
biblical  images  of  stone  in  the  churches  of  our  own 
sacred  creed. 

I  make  no  attempt  to  trace  outside  influences  on  the 
mythologies  of  Island  creeds;  indeed,  no  influences  can 
be  traced.  The  only  influence  I  was  aware  of,  or  ever 
heard  discussed,  was  this,  that  with  the  advent  of  the 
missionary,  Island  mythology  and  heathen  legends  were 
sponged  off  the  map  of  existence.  The  missionaries, 


PREFACE  ix 

naturally  enough,  could  see  no  use  in  preserving  leg- 
endary creeds  founded  on  idol-worship  and  sacrificial 
cannibalism,  and  all  that  was  certainly  "  not  the  correct 
thing  "  in  a  world  where  morals  and  manners  differ  so 
greatly  from  our  own.  In  this  way,  both  the  old  legends 
and  the  crude,  primitive  conceptions  of  religious  wor- 
ship have  long  since  been  swept  away,  and  sometimes 
also  the  tribes  that  cherished  these  crude  ideas  were 
swept  away  with  their  creeds. 

Islands  that  twenty  years  ago  had  populations  number- 
ing many  thousand,  to-day  have  a  scattered  population 
of  a  hundred  or  so.  The  blue-blooded  Marquesan  tribes 
have  been  wiped  out.  The  survivors  are  so  mixed  in 
blood  that  they  do  not  seem  the  children  of  their  fathers. 
So  rapid  has  been  the  change  that  many  old  chiefs 
are  still  living  who  recall  the  days  when  the  voices  of 
the  winds  and  mountains  were  mutterings  of  the  mighty 
gods  of  shadowland.  Born  under  the  influences  of  new 
conditions,  the  natives  of  to-day  do  not  look  back  beyond 
the  lotu  times.  Their  imaginations  are  steeped  in  the 
atmosphere  of  the  biblical  stories  they  learn  in  the 
mission-room.  Having  a  sense  of  shame  for  the  sins 
of  their  fathers,  they  deny  even  the  far-off  wonders  of 
the  tapu-groves.  In  these  tapu-groves,  and  beneath  the 
sacred  banyan  trees,  there  once  stood  the  heathen  temples 
(mareas),  the  dwelling-places  of  those  terrible  priests 
who,  empowered  by  superstitious  reverence,  officiated  at 
the  sacrificial  altars.  These  priests  were  more  powerful 
in  their  profession  than  cannibal  chiefs  or  heathen  kings. 
Looking  at  the  ruins  of  the  altars  overgrown  with  weeds, 
it  seems  incredible  that  human  hands  were  once  lifted 
in  supplication  to  relentless  captors  before  they  were 
sacrificed  to  the  bigotry  of  heathen  gospel.  It  forces 
upon  us  the  similarity  of  their  fate  and  that  of  our  old 
English  martyrs.  In  the  forest,  hard  by,  slept  the  dead — 


x  PREFACE 

the  dead  who  were  the  strange,  wild  peoples  that  once 
made  every  shadow  a  lurking  god,  their  superstitious  eyes 
seeing  the  starlit  forest's  height  as  some  mighty  dark- 
branched  brain  of  a  heathen  deity's  glittering  thoughts. 

The  Polynesians  believed  that  their  great  ancestors 
were  metamorphosed  into  stars;  in  this  belief  there  is 
something  of  the  Egyptian  and  Hellenic  touch.  There 
are  many  star-legends  concerning  the  origin  of  the 
conspicuous  constellations  of  their  lovely  skies,  legends 
that  strangely  resemble  those  of  Greek  mythology.  As 
Circe  turned  Odysseus'  comrades  into  swine,  so  did  the 
heathen  goddesses  turn  Samoan  warriors  into  crabs, 
snakes,  and  cuttle-fish.  Travellers  have  often  been 
struck  by  this  resemblance  in  South-Sea  mythology  to 
the  folk-lore  of  the  western  world.  The  resemblance, 
I  think,  is  easy  enough  to  understand,  for  Man  is  man 
wherever  one  goes  in  this  wide  world.  Be  he  black, 
tawny,  or  white,  his  innermost  hopes  and  aspirations 
are  much  the  same. 

The  South-Sea  savage  gazed  with  the  same  wondering 
eyes  of  hope  on  the  travelling  sun,  moon,  and  stars. 
To  his  childlike  mind  they  were  the  movements  of  his 
mighty  deities  and  ancestors.  He  too  peopled  the 
visible  universe  with  gods  and  goddesses,  as  did  the 
ancient  Greeks;  the  phenomena  of  nature  impressed 
his  mind  in  much  the  same  way  as  it  has  impressed  man- 
kind from  the  remotest  ages.  The  same  kind  of  sorrow 
dwelt  in  the  hearts  of  those  old-time  savages  when  they 
gazed  on  the  dead  child  in  the  forest.  The  sunsets 
blew  the  silent  bugles  of  mysterious  hues  along  their 
horizons,  touching  their  lovely  skylines  with  unheard 
but  visible  melodies  over  the  briefness  of  all  living 
things.  They  too  crept  out  of  their  forests  long  ages 
ago,  and  stared  with  wonder  on  the  rainbow  that  shone 
over  their  empurpled  seas.  Those  old  rainbows,  sunsets, 


PREFACE  xi 

and  stars  left  the  first  etherealized  impressions  of 
beauty  in  the  heart  of  primeval  Man  the  world  over. 
And  those  old  rainbows,  sunsets,  and  stars  still  exist, 
are  shining  to-day  in  Man's  imagination,  in  all  those 
longings  for  the  beautiful  that  we  call  "  Strivings  after 
Art."  Thus  there  is  a  strong  link,  a  twinship  between  us 
and  those  past  savage  races.  Their  old  symbols  of  the 
stars,  drifting  clouds,  fading  sunsets,  and  moons  that 
once  hung  in  the  wide  galleries  of  their  heaven  still 
exist  in  all  our  poetic  conceptions  of  that  which  is  wild 
and  beautiful.  Through  the  alchemy  of  man's  trans- 
muting mind,  the  wonders  of  that  old  world  are 
represented  in  all  that  is  highest  in  our  Art;  the  very 
landscape-painting  that  hangs  on  our  homestead  walls 
to-day  faintly  expresses  the  poetic  light  that  once  sparkled 
in  the  eyes  of  those  who  lived  when  the  world  dreamed 
in  its  savage  childhood.  The  music  maestro  to-day 
stands  before  the  footlights,  not  of  the  stars,  but  before 
Man's  artificial  splendour  of  lamplit  halls,  a  highly- 
cultured  savage,  some  wonderful  embodiment  of  the 
genius  who  once  blew  in  the  magical  conch-shell — that 
old  barbarian  musician  who  instinctively  caught  the 
harmonies  of  creation  from  the  resounding  primeval  seas, 
the  winds  in  the  forests,  and  the  songs  of  the  first  birds, 
applying  them  as  sympathetic  symbols  of  sound  that  he 
might  please  the  earnest  longings,  the  deepest  dreams  of 
that  shaggy-haired,  fierce  audience  that  assembled  in  their 
barbarian  forest  halls.  So  it  seems  that  nothing  that 
pleases  our  eyes  and  senses  belong  to  civilization  or  is 
of  our  own  making.  I  imagine  that  it  has  all  been 
derived  from  the  first  tremendous  blackboard — the  prim- 
itive days  and  starlit  nights  of  heathen  lands.  And,  so, 
the  first  wild  children  of  creation  were  our  masters,  who 
unconsciously  studied  in  the  great  school  of  Art  under 
God's  mysterious  tuition  that  we  might  feel  the  pride 


xii  PREFACE 

and  glory  of  all  that  is  beautiful  and  divine,  with  hope 
in  this  far-away  New  Day!  We  dwell  to-day  in  a 
materialistic  age  of  brassy-blare  and  "  advanced  thought." 
We  have  weighted  ourselves  with  the  thick  armour  of 
civilization,  till  we  fight  on  with  curved  spines,  hardly 
listing  where  we  may  fall.  The  old  mythological  light 
of  the  stars  is  now  switched  on  the  pounding  machinery 
of  our  cities,  instead  of  being  fixed  on  our  imaginations. 
We  grope  in  some  darkness  of  our  own  making,  as  a 
thousand  sects  mumble  in  their  beards  about  some  du- 
bious hope  beyond  the  grave.  We  are  chained  prisoners 
in  the  stone  cells  of  our  own  vaunted  ambitions.  No 
flower  or  singing  bird  is  a  true  symbol  of  hope,  delight, 
or  wonder;  all  that  we  see  is  divested  of  the  fairy-wings 
of  that  imagination  that  brings  us  wealth  beyond  our 
fleshly  selves.  The  true  poetry  of  life  has  gone  for  ever. 
The  wild  bird's  song  steams  in  our  old  stew-pot — we 
like  it  better  that  way!  But  one  must  suppose  that 
all  this  is  as  it  should  be.  Nevertheless,  we  are  the  old 
savages,  the  Dark  Ages,  in  a  double  sense,  dreaming 
that  we  are  the  children  of  the  Golden  Age !  The  nursery 
tale  told  to  the  children  as  they  sat  by  some  Kentish 
homestead's  fireside  last  night,  was  whispered  into  the 
ears  of  wondering  children  of  the  South  Seas  long  ages 
ago. 

In  reference  to  the  general  style  of  my  book,  I  have 
written  on  the  theory  that  autobiographical  writing 
should  be  inspired,  not  by  any  idea  of  the  apparent 
merits  of  those  things  which  the  author  may  feel  that 
he  has  done  well,  but  from  his  indwelling  regret  over 
the  many  things  which  he  has  never  succeeded  in  doing 
at  all.  I  imagine  that  it  is  so  easy  to  convince v  the 
world  of  our  faults  and  so  difficult  to  interest  it  by 
putting  down  on  paper  those  virtues  we  all  secretly 
hope  we  possess.  However  that  may  be,  my  reader 


PREFACE  xiii 

can  rest  assured  that  my  memoirs  are  based  on  my 
happy  meditations  over  all  the  great,  worldly  things 
that  I  have  never  succeeded  in  doing,  and  so,  whatever 
interest  my  book  lacks,  is  not  lacking  through  any  fault 
of  my  own. 

I  feel  that  it  is  necessary  to  admit  here  that  I  have 
been  obliged  to  dig  deep  whilst  resuscitating  from  the 
legendary  dark  the  old  mummies,  the  gods  and  god- 
desses which  I  found  buried  in  the  pyramids  of  heathen 
mythology.  It  is  I  who  have  breathed  the  new  breath  of 
life  into  their  dusty  nostrils  as  I  unrolled  their  spiced, 
rotting  swathings  so  that  they  might  have  some  re- 
semblance to  the  time  when  they  had  true  visionary  ex- 
istence before  the  wondering  eyes  of  those  wild,  savage 
peoples  of  a  mythological  past.  I  have  placed  them,  with 
a  little  diffidence,  on  their  crumbling  feet,  refashioning 
them  with  their  unsewn  eyelids  and  mouths  somewhat 
awry,  on  show  in  the  temple  of  my  memoirs,  in  full 
view,  standing  along  the  aisles  of  dim  remembrance, 
faintly  lit  up,  I  hope,  by  the  light  of  my  own  imagination. 

As  books  of  an  autobiographical  nature  usually  de- 
vote a  chapter  or  so  to  incidents  connected  with  the 
author's  birth  and  childhood,  and  as  some  of  the  critics 
of  my  previous  books  wished  to  know  something  of 
my  genesis,  I  am  pleased  to  say  that  I  am  still  full 
of  go,  still  following  the  sea-birds  and  land-birds  on  my 
vagabond  travels.  Through  my  parentage  I  can  claim 
the  blood  of  three  nations — English,  Scottish,  and  a 
strain  of  Italian — my  mother  being  a  descendant  of 
Thomas  Haynes  Bayly,  the  English  ballad-writer; 
my  father,  a  literary  man,  a  descendant  of  Charles, 
the  second  Earl  of  Middleton,  and  a  lady  of  the  Italian 
Court:  I  believe  this  lady  wrote  some  revolutionary 
songs,  which  were  the  direct  cause  of  her  enforced 
flight  from  her  own  country.  Having  said  this  much, 


xiv  PREFACE 

I  will  retire  as  gracefully  as  possible  by  saying  that  I 
have  only  stepped  on  the  stage  of  this  book  as  one  of 
its  humblest  actors,  as  a  hollow-voiced  prompter  who 
would  bolster  up  the  reputations  of  his  old  friends  of 
the  past  with  the  weight  of  his  fleshly  self.  And  so 
I  am  here  in  the  spirit  of  good  comradeship,  the  far-away 
echo  of  my  violin  on  the  South-Sea  buskin  march  as- 
sisting those  who  are  scattered  or  dead,  and  no  longer 
able  to  help  themselves  on  this  new  stage  of  a  shadowy 
drama  in  which  I  have  placed  them. 

K,  S.-M. 


CONTENTS 

PART  ONE 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  I.   SAMOA:  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS 

Author's  Heritage — Arrives  at  Samoa — Disillusioned — Illu- 
sive Romance — Golden-skinned  Polynesian  Maids — Meets 
great  Heathen  Philosophers — The  Samoan  Chief,  O  Le  Tao  23 

CHAPTER  II.   TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI 

I  ship  with  a  genuine  Old-time  Crew — Poetic  Nightmares — 
Tattooed  Manuscripts  of  the  Seas! — I  learn  the  Art 
of  Forcible  Expression — Tar-pots — The  Storm — Washed 
Overboard — Papeete — Pokara — How  the  first  Coco-nuts 
came — Star  Myths 49 

CHAPTER  III.   POKARA'S  STORY 

Pokara  tells  me  how  the  first  Idol  came  to  be  Worshipped      92 

CHAPTER  IV.   I  MEET  ALOA 

The  Hut  in  the  Mountains — A  Modern  Fairy — The  Es 
cape — Love's  Hospitality — The  Stranger  from  the  Infinite 
Seas! 100 

CHAPTER  V.   FAE  FAE 

I  meet  O'Hara — The  Emotional  Irish  Temperament — The 
Tahitian  Temperament — O'Hara  and  I  go  Pearl-hunting — 
Tapee,  the  Old-time  Idol-worshipper 106 

CHAPTER  VI.   ABDUCTION  OF  A  PRINCESS 

O'Hara  in  Love — Fae  Fae's  Midnight  Elopement — Chased 
— A  Melodramatic  Race  for  Life — The  Innocence  of  Eve — 
Temptation— The  Lost  Bride — The  Madness  of  Romance — 
Outbound  for  Honolulu  .  115 


xvi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  VII.  THE  HEATHEN'S  GARDEN  OF  EDEN 

Tangalora  the  Samoan  Scribe — Where  the  Gods  and  God- 
desses first  met  in  Council — The  Materials  of  which  the 
first  Mortal  Children  were  Fashioned — The  first  Wonder- 
ing Men — The  first  Women — How  the  first  Babies  came  to 
their  Mothers 144 

CHAPTER  VIII.   IN  OLD  FIJI 

A  Heathen  Monastery — A  Scene  of  Primitive  Heathenism 
— My  unsolicited  Professional  Engagement — I  imbibe  Kava 
— I  am  made  "Taboo" — Things  that  I  may  not  Confess — 
My  Escape — Fanga  Loma — A  Native  Village — The  En- 
chantress of  the  Forest — Temptation — In  Suva  again  .  .  158 

CHAPTER    IX.     KASAWAYO     AND    THE    SERPENT 

(A  FIJIAN  LEGEND  FOR  YOUNG  AND  OLD  CHILDREX) 
A  Goddess  in  the  Garb  of  Mortality — A  Garden  of  Eden — 
Temptation — Kasawayo  and  Kora  the  Mortal — The  Battle 
Flight  to  Shadowland 175 

PART  TWO 
CHAPTER  X.   O  LE  LANGI  THE  PAGAN  POET 

A  Pagan  Poet — Influence  of  Byron  and  Keats — Star-myths 
Enchanted  Crab 203 

CHAPTER  XI.  R.  L.  S.  IN  SAMOA 

O  Le  Langi's  Influence — Heathen  Magic — Poetic  Aspira- 
tions— Ramao  and  Essimao-Samoan  Types — Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  and  the  "  Beautiful  White  Woman "— O  Le 
Langi  becomes  a  Part  of  the  Forest — "  Here  lies  O  Le 
Langi"— A  Great  Truth 214 

CHAPTER  XII.   A  MOHAMMEDAN  BANQUET 

A  Child  of  American  Democracy — Rajah  Barab — Barba- 
rossa — Brown-Slave  Traffic  Methods — Motavia's  Grave — 
The  Magic  Casement — The  Splendour  of  Rose-coloured 
Spectacles — Mohammedanistic  Desires — Giovanni's  Love 
Affairs— Exit  Barab  238 


CONTENTS  xvii 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  XIII.  AN  OLD  MARQUESAN  QUEEN 

In  Tai-o-hae — I  come  across  a  widowed  Marquesan 
Queen — Am  received  with  Dignity — The  Artistic  Tattoo  on 
Loi  Vakamoa's  Royal  Person — The  Queen  tells  how  she 
was  married  to  a  certain  Martin  Smith  of  New  South 
Wales — An  aged  Queen's  Vanity — A  Heathen  Necropolis  254 

CHAPTER  XIV.   TISSEMOA  AND  THE  CUTTLE-FISH 

Impressionistic  Scene  in  Nuka  Hiva — Tissemao  listens  to 
the  Luring  Voice  of  a  Cuttle-fish — The  Love-stricken 
Cuttle-fish — When  Crabs  are  Brave 265 

CHAPTER  XV.   CHARITY    ORGANIZATION    OF    THE 
SOUTH  SEAS 

I  fall  from  Space — Court  Violinist — Arrive  in  Fiji — With 
the  Great  Missing 273 

CHAPTER  XVI.  YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER 

The  Wild  White  Girl— The  Wagner  of  Storms— A  Pagan 
Citadel — Pagan  Democracy — Ye  Old  Britisher — A  Battle 
in  the  Dark 287 

CHAPTER  XVII.   SOOGY,  CHILD  OF  POETRY 

Poetry's  Legitimate  Child— Music's  Fairyland — A  Civilized 
Old  Man  of  the  Sea — A  Clerical  Hat  is  the  Symbol  of 
Modern  Religion 318 

CHAPTER  XVIII.   RETROSPECT 

The  Modern  Old  Man  of  the  Sea— Fifty  Pounds !— A 
Human  Octopus — Adrift  at  Sea — Sorrow — Saved — In 
Tonga— Our  Old  Man's  last  Hiding-place — Retrospect  .  326 


TO  YOU  MEN  OF  THE  CITIES 


Come !  follow  me  o'er  the  sun-bleached  sands  by  the  seas  where 
the  small  grog-shanty  stands 

On  the  Wallaby  track  to  Falaboo. 

Come !  drink  of  the  sunsets,  rich  old  wine  from  the  wandering 
sinful  days  of  mine, 

For  'tis  only  in  dreams  the  world  rings  true. 

Come!  dream  of  some  magic,  far-off  day,  some  lone  backyard  in 
the  Milky  way! 

I'll  fiddle;  how  the  wandering  stars  will  dance! 

We'll  sing  together — "  Yo  ho !  yo  ho !  "  as  on  the  mighty  God- 
winds  blow 

Through  the  dreams  of  my  world  of  gay  romance. 


I've  tramped  the  tracks  to  Malabo,  I've  been  the  way  the  fallen 

go! 

When  times  were  bad  my  fiddle  wailed  their  grief — 
Till,  by  the  camp-fires  on  the  steep,  one  by  one  they  fell  asleep : 
(I've  buried  three,  dead  in  their  boots  beneath 
The  breadfruit  trees,  with  all  their  dreams  and  Heaven  knows 

what  thwarted  schemes!) 

We'd  tramped  the  cities,  then  we  sought  the  huts. 
And  now? — secure  on  heathen  isles,  my  pals  still  sport  their 

hopeful  smiles: 
We're  looking  thin  on  rum  and  coco-nuts! 


So  read  these  pioneer  strains  of  mine,  and  drink  deep,  friend,  as 

men  do  wine, 

Of  sunsets  on  the  ocean's  foaming  rim, 

Of  far-away  and  long  ago  where  the  scented  trade  winds  blow 
Till  skylines  sigh  the  stars  full  to  the  brim! 
As  on  I  tramp  through  sun-parched  days  or  camp  beside  the 

trackless  ways, 

Here  with  my  fiddle  in  the  jungle  curl'd, 

xix 


XX 

Weighed  down  with  wealth ! — my  tropic  seas,  my  roof  of  stars 

above  palm  trees, 

My  home  the  hills  and  highways  of  the  world! 
But — if  you  men  of  far-off  towns  have  got  a  few  spare  old 

half-crowns, 

Just  buy  my  book,  it's  really  not  the  worst 
Man  ever  wrote,  but  nearly  so,  and  that's  quite  near  enough,  you 

know; 
So,  be  my  friend — and  read  it  "  till  you  burst." 


Part  One 


SOUTH   SEA   FOAM 


PART  ONE 

CHAPTER  I.     SAMOA:  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS 

Author's  Heritage — Arrives  at  Samoa — Disillusioned — 
Illusive  Romance — Golden-skinned  Polynesian  Maids — 
Meets  great  Heathen  Philosophers — The  Samoan  Chief, 
O  Le  Tao. 

I'd  fiddled  in  Australia,  lived  on  cheek, 
Cursed  all  the  gold-fields  ever  found  down  South, 
Lived  with  mosquitoes  down  by  Bummer's  Creek — 
To  say  the  least,  I'd  felt  down  in  the  mouth. 
I'd  tramped  the  seaboard  cities  with  my  fiddle 
To  make  my  fortune,  but  ne'er  solved  the  riddle. 
I'd  got  quite  thin  on  nuts  and  grins  and  smiles, 
So  emigrated  to  the  South  Sea  Isles — 

That  Eldorado  where  men  yawned  and  seemed  to  make  their 
piles ! 

EVEN  the  wind,  my  boon  companion — for  are  we 
not  both  born  roamers? — seems  to  blow  chunks  of 
old  memories  through  the  moonlit,  tossing  pines  that  are 
sighing  to-night  outside  this  wayside  inn.  It's  here  that 
we  rest  awhile,  my  fiddle  and  I,  as  I  take  up  my  pen  to 
record  some  of  the  incidents  from  my  early  travels. 
Time,  in  its  everlasting  hurry,  gives  me  the  briefest 
space  to  say  all  I  wish  to  say;  and  ere  the  month  ends 
I  shall  be,  once  more,  outbound  on  the  western  ocean. 
Personally,  I  think  that  to  have  inherited  a  pair  of 
rose-coloured  spectacles  from  one's  ancestors  is  to  have 

23 


24 

been  endowed  at  birth  with  inexhaustible  wealth,  as  well 
as  being  born  a  king  in  one's  own  right.  Such  an  in- 
heritance enables  one  to  conjure  up  the  finest  illusions, 
helps  one  to  surmount  apparently  impossible  heights, 
and  also  cheers  one  in  each  inevitable  precipitous  fall. 
I've  often  blessed  the  fates  in  the  thought  that  they  so 
kindly  enabled  me  to  warm  my  hands  and  heart  by 
an  imaginary  fire  when  the  winds  were  blowing  cold.  So 
much  would  I  say,  in  complete  humbleness,  about  my 
special  gift.  Possibly  the  aforesaid  gift  is  the  only  in- 
herited privilege  that  entitles  me  to  write  this  book  deal- 
ing with  my  life  and  travels  in  the  South  Seas.  So  far 
as  the  world's  and  my  own  opinion  goes,  I've  no  violent 
claim  to  write  more  than  three  books.  For,  true  enough, 
it  does  not  make  for  notoriety  and  a  keen  interest  in  one's 
self  from  a  wide  public  to  have  done  the  things  that  I've 
done.  I  seriously  doubt  if  my  effigy  will  be  seen  in 
Madame  Tussaud's  waxwork  show  when  I  come  to  die. 
The  plain  fact  is,  that  it  is  not  considered  highly  re- 
spectable to  have  slept  in  a  wharf-dustbin  in  a  strange 
land,  unashamed,  and  with  the  lid  on!  And  to  have 
knelt  in  the  complete  obeisance  of  idolatry  before  a 
wooden  idol  with  a  tattooed  heathen  poet,  and  deliber- 
ately worshipped  at  the  old  shrine  of  the  stars,  is,  to 
say  the  least,  not  quite  the  thing.  Neither  does  a  wan- 
dering vagabond  life,  and  a  deep  feeling  of  kinship  with 
strange  old  shellbacks,  ragged  derelicts,  and  tattooed 
chiefs,  lay  a  suitable  foundation  for  recording  one's 
omissions  and  sins  in  polite  form.  However  that  may  be, 
I  believe  that  to  have  dined  deeply  on  salt-horse  and 
weevily  hard-tack,  and  to  have  played  the  fiddle  on  the 
"  Wallaby  track  "  from  Maoriland  to  the  Solomon  Isles, 
is  to  have  gathered  an  outfit  of  dire  accomplishments  that 
I  hope  may  have  inspired  me  with  something  to  say. 
First  of  all,  I  will  say  that,  though  I  had  been  smash- 


SAMOA:  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS        25 

ing  about  the  seaports  from  Shanghai  to  Callao,  and 
had  trekked  across  the  Never-Never  land,  generally 
bound  for  Nowhere,  I  still  had  strange  hopes  that  wild 
pioneer  life  and  romance,  as  I  had  read  about  it  ere 
I  ran  away  to  sea,  existed  somewhere  in  the  world.  I 
was  down  in  the  dumps,  stranded  in  Sydney,  when  the 
great  opportunity  presented  itself.  By  the  wharf,  in  the 
harbour,  lay  a  three-masted  ship.  When  I  went  aboard 
I  heard  that  she  was  bound  for  the  South  Sea  Islands 
— the  Isles  of  the  Blest! 

"Any  chance  of  a  job?"  I  said  to  the  chief  mate. 
He  solemnly  shook  his  head,  then  critically  scanned 
me,  then  pointing  towards  the  cuddy  aft,  referred  me 
to  the  skipper.  Entering  the  gloom  of  the  cuddy's 
small  alleyway,  I  bumped  up  against  the  "  Old  Man." 

"What  yer  wan?" 

"  Any  chance  of  a  job,  sir?  "  I  murmured  in  my  very 
best  longing-for-work  voice.  The  skipper  stood  stroking 
his  whiskers,  and,  after  scrutinizing  me  from  head  to 
feet,  demanded  to  see  my  discharges. 

"  Git  yer  traps  and  come  aboard." 

I  was  engaged  as  a  member  of  the  crew. 

Next  day  we  were  towed  down  the  harbour  by  a 
tug,  and  by  midnight  had  a  steady  wind  on  the  quarter, 
which  took  us  out  with  all  sails  set  into  the  Pacific. 

It  was  a  monotonous,  long  voyage.  The  "  Saga,"  for 
that  was  the  name  of  the  ship,  wasn't  a  "  Cutty  Sark  " 
or  a  "  Thermopylae  "  for  speed.1  Anyway,  the  length 
of  the  voyage  helped  to  warm  my  ardent  longing  to 
arrive  at  the  palmy  coral  isles. 

I  think  I  was  the  happiest  member  of  the  crew  when, 
after  much  buffeting  with  wild  weather  and  stinking 
pork  and  maggoty  hard-tack,  our  old  wind-jammer 

1  The  ''  Cutty  Sark  "  and  "  Thermopylae  "  were  two  of  the  fastest 
sailing  ships  running  from  London  to  Sydney.  The  author  sailed 
before  the  mast  from  Sydney  to  San  Francisco  on  the  "  Cutty  Sark." 


26  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

hugged  the  outer  reefs  of  the  Samoan  Isles.  Ah,  the 
music  of  the  long-drawn  sounds  of  the  surges  beating 
over  the  barrier  reefs!  I  half  fancied  I  could  hear  the 
palms  sighing  lyrical  melodies  as  the  winds  crept  like 
overflowing  zephyrs  from  some  great  scented  dream 
across  that  pagan  world.  On  the  dim  blue  horizon 
rose  ranges  of  mountains,  apparently  touching  the  tropic 
sky :  they  were,  to  me,  the  peaks  of  romance ! 

The  dry  tongues  of  the  aged,  seasoned  sailors  hung 
out  as  they  rubbed  their  tarry  hands  and  sniffed  the 
distant  grog-saloon.  Old  M'Dougal,  the  ship's  carpenter, 
danced  a  jig  and  looked  human  for  the  first  time.  The 
Dutch  boatswain  pulled  his  red  beard,  gave  a  terrific 
grin  in  the  moonlight,  and  muttered  something  about 
"  Voomen  and  vine."  Then  I  got  my  few  belongings 
together,  packed  my  violin  carefully,  and  was  ready 
to  go  ashore. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  I  found  myself  being  rowed, 
or  rather  paddled,  ashore  in  an  out-rigger  canoe.  As 
I  went  gliding  by  the  moon-ridden  lagoons,  I  felt  that 
at  last  I  had  surely  entered  some  magical  harbour  of 
a  fairy  land. 

Even  when  sunrise  came  like  a  silent  crash  of  liquid 
gold  over  the  wide  Pacific,  touching  the  mountain  peaks 
and  the  scattered  bee-hive-shaped  huts  of  the  forest 
townships,  I  was  not  disillusioned.  All  seemed  as  I 
had  so  fondly  anticipated;  it  was  as  I  had  read  about 
it  all.  Men  yarned  and  argued  dogmatically  as  they 
stood,  fierce-eyed,  before  the  bar  of  the  wooden  grog- 
shanty;  there  they  stood,  attired  in  large  slouched  hats, 
telling  such  mighty  things  about  their  thrilling  travels 
that  even  old  Homer,  could  he  have  heard,  might  well 
have  sighed  with  envy! 

When  dusk  came  and  I  heard  the  tribal  drums  beat- 
ing the  stars  in  far  away  up  in  the  forest  villages,  I 


SAMOA:  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS        27 

thought,  "  Here  at  least  I  shall  find  rest  from  the  hot- 
footed turbulency  of  civilized  humanity ;  here  I  can  dwell 
beneath  the  Eden-like  shades  of  feathery  palms,  and 
listen  to  the  wind-blown  melodies  as  they  come  in  from 
the  sea  and  run  across  the  island  trees.  I  revelled  in 
such  like  thoughts.  I  felt  that  I  had  come  across  a 
pagan  world  where  no  more  should  I  hear  servile  mum- 
blings of  a  conventional  people.  I  would  peer  into 
savage  bright  eyes  and  listen  to  the  poetic  lore  of  peo- 
ple who  worshipped  at  the  shrine  of  the  stars  and 
counted  their  days  by  the  fading  moons.  But  when 
the  fierce-eyed,  tattooed  chief,  leaning  on  his  war-club 
before  the  rough  customers  of  the  grog-shanty's  bar, 
looked  straight  into  the  eyes  of  an  old  shellback,  and, 
bringing  his  club  down  with  a  crash,  said,  with  much 
vehemence,  that  he  preferred  Solomon's  Songs  to  the 
second  chapter  of  the  Corinthians,  I  rubbed  my  eyes 
and  thought  I  dreamed!  My  chagrin  was  immense; 
those  delectable  palm-clad  isles  of  primitive  lore  and 
romance  had  come  under  the  blighting  influence  of  civi- 
lization and  of  missionaries ! 

I  was  in  Apia,  Samoa,  R.  L.  S.,  attired  in  his  velvet 
coat,  walked  into  the  bar-room  and  then  suddenly  said, 
"  Damn !  "  when  the  Beachcomber  trod  on  his  toe,  bowed, 
and  said,  "Beg  pawden,  soir!"  I  strolled  afar  and  dis- 
covered that  bright-eyed  babies,  nestling  at  the  bosoms 
of  their  shaggy-haired,  handsome  mothers,  slept  as  "  safe 
as  houses  "  in  doorless,  small-thatched  dens  under  the 
moonlit  palms.  And,  wandering  on,  I  saw  star-eyed, 
nymph-like  girls  with  tossing,  coral-dyed  hair,  pass  and 
repass  me  on  the  lonely  forest  track,  singing  merrily  in 
a  musical  tongue  as  they  dived  once  more  into  the  shad- 
ows of  the  coco-palms.1  All  this  was  extremely  pleas- 

1  The  Samoans  are  not  tawny  or  mahogany  coloured,  but  are  of 
a  pleasing,  golden-skinned  hue,  sometimes  fairer  than  Europeans. 


28  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

ing.  But  one  may  imagine  how  my  tenacious  illusions 
were  grossly  shattered  when  the  majestic  ex-king  Mal- 
aetoa  of  the  proud  O  Le  Solu  Dynasty,  last  of  his  an- 
cient line,  followed  me  into  the  isolated  grog-shanty 
hard  by,  gazed  into  my  eyes  with  fondest  affection,  and 
said,  "  Mine's  a  bitter!  " 

O,  illusive  Romance! 

Nevertheless  adventure  abounded.  Those  semi-savage 
men  sang  weird  soulful  songs,  melodious  ballads,  about 
half -forgotten  legends,  and  battles  long  ago;  and  their 
love-songs  were  as  pleasing  as  the  beauty  and  innocence 
of  their  womenkind.  I  roamed  those  palm-clad  shores 
for  days,  and  was  considerably  enlightened  in  an  edu- 
cational way,  for  I  came  across  clans  of  strange  old 
heathens,  who  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  disciples  of  the 
one  true  transcendent  democracy.  They  were  semi- 
naked  heathen  philosophers,  old  men  clad  in  loin-cloths 
only.  My  pleasure  was  immense  when  I  observed  them 
sitting  by  their  coral  cave  doors,  solemnly  chewing  nuts, 
apparently  as  happy  as  the  sunny,  livelong  day.  It  vras 
sunset,  and  when  they  all  commenced  to  beat  their  drums 
violently,  beating  the  stars  in,  it  seemed  that  their  hoarse, 
quaintly  musical  voices,  wailed  out,  "  Behold  \  we  are 
the  people !  Creation  hath  nobly  toiled  through  the  ages 
till,  lo !  the  blessed  sun  warms  our  aged  bones  as  nature 
casts  into  our  trembling  hands  digestible  nuts  and  sweet- 
scented  taro !  " 

Could  I  help  liking  the  companionship  of  such  happy, 
wise  old  philosophers? 

Many  of  those  old-time  natives  were  endowed  with 
wonderful  poetic  intellect.  And  I  vow  that  such  an 
intellect  my  old  Samoan  friend,  O  Le  Tao,  possessed. 
I  came  across  Tao  about  three  weeks  after  arriving  in 
Upolu.  And  I  may  say,  that  though  I've  played  the 
fiddle  under  a  palm  tree  outside  a  barbarian  queen's 


SAMOA:  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS         29 

royal  seraglio,  and  have  been  given  the  Freedom  of  the 
pagan  city  in  consequence,  I  can  recall  no  one  who  was 
more  hospitable  to  me  than  O  Le  Tao.  And  so,  before 
proceeding  with  the  wild  life  and  adventures  which  I 
experienced  after  leaving  Samoa  for  Tahiti,  I  would 
like  just  to  touch  on  O  Le  Tao's  character  and  genius 
by  the  way.  In  fact,  O  Le  Tao  was  interesting,  if  only 
on  account  of  his  physiognomy,  which  strangely  resem- 
bled the  weird  scenery  of  Samoa  by  moonlight — scenery 
that  I  feel  is  an  eminently  suitable  background  for  in- 
troducing him,  and  not  in  an  impressionistic  sketch  either, 
but  just  as  I  knew  him  in  his  meditative  old  age. 

First,  I  would  tell  you  that  it  was  a  lovely  sight  to 
see  the  tropical  orange  flush  of  evening  fade  to  a  deep, 
fairy-like  green  on  the  sea's  horizon  beyond  the  scimi- 
tar-shaped bay  off  Apia.  Then,  one  by  one,  the  stars 
peeped  out,  not  down  from  the  sky,  but  wistful-like  up 
from  the  lagoons  along  the  shore.  It  was  an  Olympian 
scene  and  one  that  I  should  imagine  would  inspire  the 
most  unimaginative  observer.  The  native  villages  were 
silent;  the  mountains,  like  mighty  sentinels  staring  out 
to  sea,  stood  with  tangled  forest  beards,  sighing  down 
to  their  rugged  knees.  Moonlit  lines  of  palms  waved  like 
majestic  plumes  against  the  crystalline  skies;  a  falling 
star  seemed  a  pale  ember  blown  out  of  the  far-off  con- 
stellations. But  for  the  tiny  pagan  city  of  huts,  nestling 
as  it  were  in  the  crevice  of  the  mountain's  hip,  it  might 
have  been  an  uninhabited  island  world.  Far  down  in 
the  lower  regions,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  mountain's  vast 
feet,  a  canoe  was  paddled  out  from  the  hairy  growths 
between  those  mighty  toes.  It  was  a  savage,  wrinkled 
old  man  of  another  age,  paddling  off  for  the  silent  waters 
in  a  canoe,  that  was,  to  him,  a  small  argosy  bearing 
him  away  to  the  wonders  of  shadow-land !  But  it  wasn't 
as  weird  as  all  that;  it  was  simply  the  Samoan  chief, 


30  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

O  Le  Tao,  stealing  away  under  the  cover  of  night  to 
one  of  the  neighbouring  islets,  so  that  he  might  wor- 
ship his  hidden  idol.  Though  I  cannot  claim  to  have 
been  there  on  that  special  night,  I  well  know  it  was  none 
other  than  O  Le  Tao.  And  how  I  know  this  is  my  own 
secret.  Possibly  I've  been  a  heathen  too,  and  have  pros- 
trated myself  before  an  idol;  I'm  queer  enough  for 
anything.  However  that  may  be,  I  recall  that  I  met 
O  Le  Tao  next  day.  I  was  travelling  along  in  the 
vicinity  of  Mount  Vala.  I  had  just  had  an  appetizing 
meal  of  Bass's  Ale  and  monkey-nuts — and  was  feeling 
in  good  humour.  Coco-palms,  breadfruits,  and  other 
picturesque  trees  sheltered  me  from  the  hot  sunlight  and 
my  banana-leaf  socks  hardly  swished  as  I  softly  trod 
the  beautifully  woven  carpet  of  flower  and  fern  that 
Nature's  patient  hand  had  spread  across  the  forest  floor. 
The  sea  breeze  swept  pungent  whiffs,  like  iced  wine, 
to  my  nostrils,  as  I  followed  the  track  made  by  soft- 
footed  savages  for  ages.  Suddenly  I  was  startled  by 
seeing  a  frizzly,  partially  bald  head  protrude  through 
the  bamboos.  It  was  O  Le  Tao's  cranium. 

"  What  you  wanter  here  ?  "  he  said. 

"Talofa!  e  maloto  ea  oe"  (I  greet  you,  comrade, 
and  hope  you  are  well),  I  responded,  as  the  chief's  brow 
puckered  up  with  suspicion. 

"  What  you  gotter  there — moosic  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  responded,  as  he  eyed  my  violin. 

"You  no  tafoa  vale?" 

"No;  I'm  a  friend,"  I  replied,  as  I  handed  him  a 
mark.  This  largesse  changed  his  aggressive  look  into 
a  broad  smile  of  welcome.  Following  him,  I  entered 
his  hut.  I  sat  on  his  best  mat  and  drank  refreshing  coco- 
nut milk.  Suddenly  we  were  disturbed  by  hearing  loud 
grunts,  heavy  breathing,  and  smashing  of  twigs.  In  an- 
other moment  an  aged  Samoan  woman  entered  the  hut. 


SAMOA:  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS        31 

She  was  a  fine-looking  old  woman,  and  had  kind  eyes. 
She  was  carrying  a  huge  calabash  of  water  beneath  one 
arm.  Its  cumbersome  weight  did  not  deter  her  from 
further  efforts — in  the  other  hand  she  held  a  coco-nut, 
a  basketful  of  fish — all  alive  O! — on  her  back  a  bunch 
of  bananas,  and  between  her  teeth  two  fishing  rods. 
She  was  O  Le  Tao's  industrious  better  half.  She  too 
made  me  welcome.  Then  pretty  Cenerita,  their  daugh- 
ter, arrived.  She  had  pretty  hair,  and  eyes  that  out- 
shone the  gleams  of  the  three  coco-nut-oil  lamps,  hang- 
ing from  the  hut's  low  roof  that  night;  for  it  all  ended 
in  O  Le  Tao  asking  me  to  stay  the  night  with  them. 

When  the  hour  was  late,  I  felt  very  contented  as  I 
squatted  by  their  homestead's  door  by  Cenerita's  side. 
Then  the  old  chief  commenced  to  tell  me  about  the  grand 
old  freebooting  times. 

O  Le  Tao  was  over  seventy  years  of  age,  and  so  was 
a  reliable  authority  on  the  old  sins  and  wonders  of  the 
heathen  period  of  his  palmy  isles. 

As  the  old  chief  spoke  on,  and  his  wife,  Cenerita,  and 
I  sat  by  the  doorway  that  faced  the  ocean,  I  too  became 
transformed  into  a  semi-heathen,  the  Samoan  under- 
world becoming  some  dim,  far-off  reality  to  my  brain. 
The  moon  shone  over  the  dark  waters,  and  the  voices 
coming  from  the  dark  shore  caves  just  below  seemed  to 
drum  out  muffled  echoes  from  the  old  gods  of  shadow- 
land,  as  I  listened  to  all  that  O  Le  Tao  told. 

Cenerita  had  ceased  to  sing.  We  could  faintly  hear 
the  o  le  sanga  (red-winged  nightingale)  whistling  its 
melodious  song  somewhere  up  in  the  mountain  bread- 
fruits. And  still  O  Le  Tao  spoke  on  in  this  wise: 

"  O  Papalagi,  you  must  know  and  believe  that,  in 
those  far-off  days,  the  great  spirits  of  shadowland  did 
walk  about  the  native  villages  by  night.  Often  would 
the  gods  knock  at  the  doors  of  the  great  Atuiis  (high 


32  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

chiefs),  bidding  them  strive  for  their  mighty  require- 
ments; which  were  many.  And  sad  enough  for  us  in 
the  great  sacrificial  month!"  said  O  Le  Tao  after  a 
pause;  then  he  continued:  "O  white  man,  I  must  tell 
you  that  Lao-mio  was  my  kinsman's  child  and  was  a 
maid  beautiful  to  gaze  upon." 

"  Doubtless,"  I  said,  as  he  continued. 

"  And  of  course  she  was  daughter  of  great  chief, 
so  to  fall  in  love  with  a  low-caste  youth,  as  she  did, 
was  a  terrible  disgrace  to  me  and  my  people.  Also  the 
gods,  Tangaloa,  Tuli,  Tane,  and  the  goddesses  of  O  E 
Langi  (Elysium)  were  dark-browed  with  anger  about  it 
all.  "Tis  true  that  the  low-caste  youth  was  handsome 
to  look  upon,  straight  as  a  coco-palm,  with  eyes  like  a 
katafa  bird's.  But  such  things  do  not  make  up  for 
the  lack  of  great  blood  and  the  pride  of  the  gods  in  one's 
heart." 

"  No,  certainly  not,"  said  I,  as  O  Le  Tao's  wrinkled 
physiognomy  revealed  the  pride  he  felt  over  those  old 
ancestors  that  he  claimed.  Then  he  continued : 

"  One  night,  when  we  were  all  fast  asleep  in  our 
village  by  Tewaka,  we  did  all  leap  suddenly  up  from 
our  sleeping  mats,  for  lo!  the  conch-shells  of  the  gods 
in  shadowland  were  blowing!  True  enough  the  gods 
and  goddesses  were  rushing  about  the  forests  in  great 
anger!  We  did  know  that  something  terrible  had  oc- 
curred, for  their  voices  sounded  like  to  thunder  and 
echoed  to  the  mountain  tops.  As  all  my  people  did 
rush  from  their  huts,  the  gods  disappeared  in  the  moon- 
light, but  we  were  all  just  in  time  to  see  a  canoe  being 
fast  paddled  across  the  bay  out  to  sea!  Ah,  Papalagi, 
'twas  great  insult;  for  it  was  that  low-caste  youth  Ko- 
Ko,  for  that  was  his  name,  and  Lao-mio,  the  high- 
caste  maid,  in  flight  together.  For  a  moment  we  gazed 
dumb-struck,  the  horror  of  the  scene  before  us  being 


SAMOA:  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS        33 

on  the  faces  of  all  the  chiefs.  And  the  O  tausalas  (high- 
class  girls  and  women)  weep  to  see  so  wicked  a  sight." 

Saying  the  foregoing,  O  Le  Tao  placed  his  wrinkled 
hand  to  his  brow  and  gazed  in  deep  reflection  on  the 
scene  that  was  apparently  before  his  memory.  Then, 
as  his  old  wife  handed  him  a  goblet  of  kava  (he  swal- 
lowed it  at  a  gulp),  he  cast  his  eyes  skyward  and  con- 
tinued : 

"  Suddenly  we  all  recover  our  senses,  and  go  rush- 
ing down  to  the  shore.  But  it  was  too  late.  The  cun- 
ning Ko-Ko  had  severed  the  sennet  tackles  and  had  cast 
all  our  canoes  adrift,  so  that  we  could  not  follow  him. 
He  was  very  low-caste  too,  for,  as  the  canoe  turned 
round  by  the  promontory,  he  did  turn  his  face  to  us 
and  waved  his  paddle  jeeringly!  And  though  my  kins- 
men and  many  of  the  tausalas  did  dance  with  much 
rage  on  the  shore  at  this  act  of  Ko-Ko's,  I  did  myself 
keep  calm,  as  great  chief  should  keep ;  crossing  my  arms 
on  my  breast,  I  did  spit  seaward.  It  was  then  that  we 
all  turned,  and  rushing  way  back  to  the  village  we  looked 
into  the  hut  wherein  Lao-mio  had  slept.  Lo,  master,  we 
found  all  her  clothes — she  had  left  them  behind !  'Twas 
sad  enough,  this  act  of  an  erstwhile  modest  tausala  maid, 
but  we  did  all  beat  our  chests  when  we  find  the  maid 
had  left  a  note  behind  her  too,  and  this  note  said :  '  O 
stink  chiefs  of  Samoa,  I  go  away  with  my  true  love 
Ko-Ko,  for  his  eyes  are  like  unto  the  gods!  And  I 
would  have  you  know,  O  meddling  people  of  the  vil- 
lage, that  my  children  shall  bless  me  for  having  so  god- 
like a  husband ! ' 

"  At  reading  this  insult  about  the  godliness  of  a  low- 
caste,  we  did  all  beat  our  limbs  and  bodies  till  the  blood 
fell.  And  as  we  did  this  act  we  heard  the  mighty,  far- 
off  voices  of  the  gods  cursing  our  village,  to  think 
that  a  high-caste  tausala  should  elope  with  a  cheeky 


34  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

low-caste  like  Ko-Ko.  The  next  day  the  great  toas 
(high-chiefs)  went  away  in  sorrow  to  the  sacred  altars 
at  Manono,  and,  paying  obeisance  to  the  autiis  (priests), 
asked  them  to  find  out  what  the  gods  would  have  them 
do  about  the  whole  matter.  After  many  libations  of 
ceremonial  kava  and  sacred  offerings  to  the  God  of 
gods,  the  vassals  of  shadowland  did  say :  *  You  disgraced 
people  of  Manono  must  away  go  into  the  forest  by  Lauii ; 
and  when  you  are  there  you  must  play  sweetest  music 
on  the  vuvu  and  the  magic  conch-shells  while  the  moon 
shines  over  the  sea.  It  is  then  that  the  spirits  will  hear, 
and  will  tell  you  what  is  best  to  be  done  to  enable  you 
to  catch  the  wicked  lovers." 

Saying  this,  O  Le  Tao  paused  a  moment,  then,  swell- 
ing his  tattooed  chest  to  its  full  proportions,  and  with 
his  arms  crossed  high  thereon,  he  gazed  majestic-wise 
upon  Cenerita,  his  wife,  and  my  humble  self.  Then, 
turning  his  head  and  face  round  in  the  direction  of  the 
mountains,  he  gazed  in  such  a  manner  that  it  was  plainly 
evident  he  was  about  to  divulge  something  reflecting 
no  small  amount  of  glory  upon  his  person.  He  con- 
tinued : 

"  When  the  village  did  hear  that  which  the  gods 
wished  to  be  done,  they  all  meet  by  the  sacred  banyans, 
and  say,  '  Who  ?  Who  in  our  village  am  great  enough 
to  respond  to  the  wishes  of  the  gods?'  And,  Papalagi, 
I  would  have  you  know  that,  whilst  this  talk  go  on, 
I  sit  in  full  humbleness  behind  the  assembled  tribe  in 
deep  shadow  of  breadfruit  trees."  (I  nodded  my  head, 
intimating  that  I  quite  understood  O  Le  Tao's  humility.) 
Then  he  coughed,  and  proceeded :  "  For  awhile  I  keep 
my  face  bowed  towards  the  earth;  but  still  they  call 
in  one  great  voice  again,  and  yet  again !  And  so,  know- 
ing well  that  one  cannot  cast  the  power,  the  glory,  and 
majesty  from  one's  own  person,  I  slowly  did  arise,  and, 


SAMOA:  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS        35 

standing  forth  into  the  clear  light  of  the  moon's  full- 
ness, I  say,  '  Who  is  this  that  calls  aloud  for  O  Le 
Tao?' 

"  And,  in  this  wise,  was  I  chosen  above  all  others, 

0  Papalagi! 

"  That  same  night  I  and  Lao-mio's  father,  who  was 
a  kinsman  of  mine,  did  go  away  to  seek  the  magic  caves 
where  dwelt  the  vassals  of  the  gods  of  the  underworld. 
When  we  arrived  by  the  sea-shore  we  perceive  four 
young  coco-palms  growing,  that  had  not  been  there  be- 
fore. And,  as  we  blew  the  conch-shells,  the  four  coco- 
palms  did  commence  to  quiver  in  the  light  of  the  moon, 
the  plumes  and  bunches  of  nuts  that  sprouted  at  the 
tops  starting  to  swell  visibly.  Still  we  did  blow  and 
blow  the  vuvu  and  conch-shell;  and  still  the  coco-nuts 
swell  and  swell  till  they  gleam  in  the  moonlight,  and 
lo!  they  were  the  big  faces  of  the  gods!  We  did  then 
notice  that  the  trunks  of  the  palms  were  their  legs.  My 
kinsman  and  I  did  lean  one  against  the  other,  so  great 
was  our  surprise  to  hear  their  voices.  For,  lifting  their 
shivering  arms  to  the  sky,  they  say,  *  O  great  O  Le  Tao, 
and  he  too  who  am  shadowed  in  your  presence.' ' 

"  I  suppose  the  gods  alluded  to  your  kinsman?"  said 
I,  interrupting  the  old  chief. 

"  That  am  so,  Papalagi,"  said  Tao,  as  I  struck  a  match 
on  my  knee  and  intimated  by  a  nod  of  my  head  that 

1  wished  him  to  proceed.     Then  he  continued  in  this 
wise :  "  The  gods  looked  down  upon  us  and  said,  '  If 
you  would  once  more  get  Lao-mio  the  maid  back  to 
your  village,  you  must  go  along  the  coast  and  approach 
the  caves  wherein  dwells  the  beautiful  goddess  Pafuto. 
She   will   stand   in  your  presence,  and   then   lead  you 
across  the  sea  to  Savaii  Isle  so  that  you  may  get  at  the 
maid  Lao-mio/ 

"  At  saying  these  things  they  did  look  upon  myself 


36  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

and  my  kinsman  with  deep  concern  shining  like  a  shadow 
on  moonlit  waters  in  their  eyes,  and  then,  again  said: 
'  You  are  mortals,  and  so  we  would  tell  you  that,  what- 
ever you  do,  you  must  not  gaze  upon  the  goddess  Pafu- 
to's  face  or  form  with  amorous  eyes,  neither  may  you 
let  your  hearts  hold  such  thoughts  as  one  may  have  when 
gazing  upon  a  beauteous  mortal  maid.' 

"  Well,  Papalagi,  this  wish  of  the  gods  did  not  trouble 
us;  but  pulling  my  tappa  robe  around  me  I  did  at  once 
commence  to  go  with  my  kinsman  to  the  spot  where 
we  might  see  the  great  goddess.  When  we  did  at  length 
come  to  the  sea,  the  moonlight  lay  fast  asleep  on  the 
deep  waters.  The  o  le  manu  ao  (Samoan  nightingale), 
hearing  our  approach,  started  singing  its  midnight  song 
to  its  favourite  goddess  Langi  (heaven).  We  listened 
until  our  hearts  were  charmed  very  much,  so  much  so 
that  we  both  felt  that  our  hearts  were  fit  to  urge  our 
voices  to  speak  out  those  things  which  the  gods  had 
told.  And  so  I  stepped  forward,  and  say,  '  O  le  sanga 
oa  e  magi  langi.'  At  hearing  me  speak,  the  o  le  tn-anu 
at  once  cease  its  song.  Silence  did  fall  and  run  on 
silvery  moonlight  feet  across  the  forest.  Then,  lo,  a 
shadow  fell  slantwise  across  the  lagoon  that  faced  the 
sleeping  ocean.  We  turn  our  eyes,  and  there,  stepping 
forth  from  her  big  shore  cave,  was  the  goddess  Pafuto! 

"  Ah,  Papalagi,  never  before  did  my  eyes  behold  so 
beautiful  a  goddess.  Her  raiment  was  made  from  the 
finest  wove  seaweed.  Her  hair  tresses,  falling  like  a 
golden  river  on  the  sunset  mountains,  made  a  wonderful 
mat  for  her  nicest  of  feet." 

At  this  moment  the  old  chief's  story  was  interrupted 
by  the  arrival  of  Cenerita's  fiance,  a  handsome  youth 
named  Tamariki.  As  the  youth  sat  at  Cenerita's  feet, 
O  Le  Tao  gave  him  a  freezing  look  that  he  should  in- 
trude at  such  a  moment.  Then  the  old  man  placed  his 


SAMOA:  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS        37 

hand  archwise  over  his  eyes  in  some  memory  of  the 
dazzling  beauty  of  the  goddess  Pafuto,  and  continued: 
"  The  goddess  gaze  on  us  with  magical  light  stealing 
through  her  eyes,  then  she  plucked  a  reed  from  the 
lagoon's  edge  and  blew  out  a  note  of  sweetest  music. 
At  once  the  o  le  manu  ao  commenced  to  sing  again,  and 
out  of  the  cavern  to  the  right  of  us  came  floating  a  tau- 
mualua  (native  boat).  My  kinsman  and  I  at  once  did 
that  which  the  goddess  commanded,  for  we  at  once 
jump  into  the  taumualua.  As  we  sat  in  the  magic 
canoe,  she  did  softly  step  into  it  and  give  a  magic  sign. 
It  was  with  much  sorrow  that  I  did  notice  that  the 
taumualua  carry  no  paddles,  for,  Papalagi,  I  feel  that 
the  goddess  may  be  for  voyaging  beneath  the  sea  in- 
stead of  moving  over  the  waters.  But  just  as  I  did 
look  into  my  kinsman's  eyes  in  sorrow,  the  goddess  did 
stand  upright  between  us.  She  was  as  tall  as  a  mast 
and  as  straight.  Uplifting  her  robes  and  stretching  her 
curved  arms  out  like  unto  sails  of  a  ship,  the  night  wind 
did  at  once  commence  to  softly  blow.  It  was  a  wonder- 
ful sight  to  see  her  robes  gently  fill  out  like  big  sails 
to  the  blowing  airs  as  the  magical  canoe  start  to  move 
silently  across  the  moonlit  waters. 

"  As  we  did  glide  over  the  sea  we  could  distinctly 
see  her  shadow  reflected  in  the  water  beside  us,  beside 
the  imaged  moon  that  was  full  of  brightness.  Ah,  Papa- 
lagi, it  was  this  uprightness  of  the  goddess  that  did 
bring  about  the  fall  of  my  kinsman.  Alas,  as  she  be- 
came like  to  sails  of  a  taumualua,  because  of  the  up- 
lifting of  her  robes  there  beside  us,  her  graceful  limbs 
were  revealed  to  half  a  finger's  length  above  the  knees. 
Truly,  Papalagi,  it  was  a  sight  to  tempt  even  the  gods, 
let  alone  us  poor  mortals  as  we  sat  there,  one  each  side 
of  that  wondrous  figure,  my  cheek  almost  touching  the 
right  flank,  and  my  kinsman's  the  left  knee. 


38  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

"  Knowing  deep  in  our  hearts  what  the  gods  had 
warned  us  about,  we  tried,  more  than  I  may  tell,  not 
to  behold  or  dream  of  her  gracefulness  and  the  secret 
glory  of  such  womanly  loveliness,  as  we  could  have 
done  had  she  been  a  mortal. 

"  So,  Papalagi,  I  did  perspire  overmuch  through  try- 
ing to  kill  those  thoughts  that  will  afflict  us  poor  mor- 
tals. I  sighed  and  prayed,  and  even  sang  a  short  lotu- 
song  (hymn)  to  help  stifle  those  thoughts  that  dare  not 
rise  from  my  heart.  It  was  during  this  misery  of  mine 
in  endeavouring  to  keep  faith  with  the  gods  and  our 
promises  that  I  did  notice  my  kinsman  breathing  heav- 
ily. I  look  long  upon  him,  and  then  see  that  he  was 
near  to  being  fauti  (in  a  fit)  for  trying  also  to  stay  his 
deeper  thoughts.  Much  fright  came  to  my  soul  at  see- 
ing the  state  of  one  whom  I  loved  much  and  who  was 
near  to  me  in  blood.  I  did  look  eagerly  across  the 
sea,  and  with  much  sorrow  notice  that  we  were  still 
more  than  a  mile  from  the  lonely  shores  of  Savaii  Isle. 
The  promontory  was  just  visible  far  away  to  the  north. 

"'What  shall  we  do?  What  shall  we  do?'  I  mut- 
ter as  I  did  see  my  kinsman's  form  writhe  in  the  agony 
of  his  desires. 

"  At  this  moment  the  goddess  slightly  swerved  her 
outstretched  arms  around  to  the  north-east  so  that  she 
might  catch  the  fairer  wind.  In  this  sudden  action  of 
hers,  her  mass  of  beautiful  hair  fell  about  our  shoul- 
ders, for  she  had  slowly  moved  her  head  likewise,  so 
that  her  face  should  be  turned  to  the  south-west;  so 
that,  while  her  left  arm  point  north-east,  her  face  turn 
south-west.  Whether  it  was  this  movement  of  the  chang- 
ing winds  that  made  her  tresses  fall  and  prove  my  kins- 
man's undoing,  I  know  not.  But  it  is  certain  that,  as 
her  masses  of  hair  fell  tenderwise  on  his  face  and  shoul- 
ders, her  eyes,  inclined  sideways,  gazed  on  him  and 


SAMOA:  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS        39 

on  me  in  such  a  way  as  surely  goddess  never  gazed  to 
tempt  mortals  before.  And  then,  alas,  whether  the  knees 
moved  through  the  soft  swaying  of  the  canoe  or  through 
the  sudden  veering  of  the  night  wind,  I  know  not,  but 
my  kinsman's  lips  did  suddenly  touch  the  left  knee  of 
the  goddess! 

"  In  a  moment,  as  though  lightning  swept  across  the 
moonlit  waters,  a  flash  of  light  leapt  from  the  goddess's 
eyes — the  canoe  wherein  we  sat  vanished — was  as  noth- 
ing! 

"  For  longer  time  I  did  swim  and  swim.  And  when 
at  length  I  sat  on  the  shore,  only  the  great  goddess 
Pafuto  sat  beside  me!  It  was  then  I  knew  that  my 
sad  kinsman  had  been  unable  to  control  his  mortal 
thoughts,  and  so  was  lying  somewhere  dead  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  moana  uli  (the  blue  sea).  Gazing  upon  me, 
the  goddess  said,  '  O  Le  Tao,  thou  art  a  great  chief. 
Thou  hast  seen  mucher  beauty  of  the  goddesses  of  Langi 
in  their  true  nakedness,  and  thou  hast  proven  that  thou 
lovest  the  light  of  heaven  in  their  eyes  only.' 

"  At  hearing  this,  I  felt  much  pride.  Yet,  true  enough, 
my  heart  did  quake  overmuch,  for  well  I  knew  how  near 
I  was  to  falling  as  my  kinsman  fell." 

The  old  Samoan  chief  ceased  for  a  moment.  The 
night  winds  blew  softly,  drifting  the  scents  of  ripe 
lemons  and  breaths  of  decaying  flowers  to  our  nostrils. 
Cenerita,  under  the  influence  of  her  parent's  story, 
peered  into  the  forest  glooms.  The  grand  chief  ess, 
Madame  O  Le  Tao,  puffed  her  cigarette  and  revealed 
by  the  erect  pose  of  her  scraggy  neck  that  she  realized 
the  import  of  her  position  as  O  Le  Tao's  faithful  spouse. 
The  old  chief,  continuing  his  story,  said : 

"  O  Papalagi,  when  the  goddess  Pafuto  said  that  to 
me  which  I  have  just  told  you,  I  feel  much  proud  and 
thankful  for  her  mercy.  I  well  knew  that  she  know 


40  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

in  her  heart  that  I  too  had  been  near  to  breaking  my 
promise  when  the  taumualua  swayed.  But,  still,  she 
know  what  great  soul  O  Le  Tao  am! — so  she  say  no 
more.  Indeed,  it  was  at  this  moment  that  she  did  bend 
forward,  softly  touching  me  on  the  shoulder  with  her 
lips,  and  so  did  make  me  taboo  (a  sacred  personage). 
When  I  did  get  back  to  the  village  and  told  the  chiefs 
all  that  had  happened,  they,  though  much  grieved  to 
hear  of  my  kinsman's  death,  thought  little  more  of  the 
flight  of  the  lovers,  Lao-mio  and  K-ko-ko.  They  did 
at  once  prepare  great  festival  to  celebrate  the  glory  that 
the  goddess  Pafuto  had  sent  back  such  a  great  one  as 
I  to  still  dwell  amongst  them." 

When  he  had  made  an  end,  the  old  chief  lifted  his 
shoulders  majestically,  surveying  me  keenly  the  while 
with  his  dim  eyes.  It  was  then  that  I  realized  how 
those  island  chiefs  and  the  ancestors  of  knights  and 
kings  of  all  lands  had  first  gained  their  power,  their 
possessions,  and  mighty  insignia.  I  instinctively  knew 
that  not  only  in  those  wild  isles  were  men  gifted  with 
an  imagination  that  made  them  have  firm  belief  in  all 
that  they  dreamed  of  over  their  own  greatness.  I  half 
envied  O  Le  Tao's  gifts — gifts  he  had  so  well  utilized. 
For  as  he  sat  there  I  saw  that  he  was  enthroned  on 
the  heights  of  magnificent  imagination  and  lived  in  the 
light  of  respect  from  all  men's  eyes. 

Such  was  O  Le  Tao's  story  of  the  goddess  Pafuto, 
as  told  me  while  the  Samoan  night  doves  moaned  mu- 
sically in  the  tamanu  trees. 

During  my  stay  the  semi-heathen  chief  took  me  to 
many  interesting  places,  showing  me  spots  in  the  for- 
ests and  along  the  shores  where  once  some  great  tribal 
battle  had  been  fought,  or  some  cave  wherein,  on  certain 
occasions,  gods  and  goddesses  met  in  midnight  council. 
After  that,  O  Le  Tao  took  Cenerita,  Tamariki,  and  myself 


SAMOA:  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS        41 

to  a  night  dance  in  the  shore  village  near  Monono.  I 
am  assured  that  Man  cannot  improve  on  Nature's  handi- 
work in  building  roomy  halls  for  secret  congregations 
of  human  beings  who  would  indulge  in  heathenish  capers 
that  endeavour  to  express  the  inherent  impulses  of  man- 
kind. The  gnarled  pillars  and  flower-bespangled  cur- 
tains of  that  wonderful  forest  opera-house,  decorated 
by  Nature's  artless,  silent-moving  hands,  left  nothing 
to  be  desired  even  by  the  most  critical  Maestro  who 
might  happen  to  perform  on  the  wide,  branch-roofed 
stage.  The  moon  hanging  in  the  vaulted  roof  of  space 
over  the  trees,  was  sufficient  for  all  purposes.  The  acous- 
tic properties  were  perfect,  the  neighbouring  hills  echo- 
ing back  each  orchestral  crescendo  and  each  encore  in 
obsequious,  weird  diminuendos.  In  the  intervals  of  si- 
lence it  would  often  seem  that  I  heard  some  phantom-like 
accompaniment,  and  faint  encores  coming  from  the  gods 
of  shadowland,  ere  the  barbaric  orchestra  of  fifes,  bone 
flutes,  and  drums  once  more  recommenced  its  terrific 
ensemble.  I  was  more  than  astonished  to  see  O  Le 
Tao  suddenly  throw  his  stiff  legs  out  as  he  commenced 
to  dance  with  an  elderly  chief  ess  of  enormous  girth. 
A  hundred  dusky  Eyes  seemed  to  tempt  a  hundred  will- 
ing Adams  as  the  sarong-like  robes  swished  to  tripping 
feet  when  the  whole  audience  began  to  dance  before 
the  footlights  of  the  stars!  With  the  characteristic  re- 
straint of  my  race,  I  clenched  my  fist  in  a  great  mental, 
virtuous  effort,  but  only  to  fail  through  my  miserable 
fallibility,  for,  opening  my  closed  eyelids,  I  stared  with 
unblushing  effrontery  at  the  prima  donna's  exquisitely 
woven  concert-robe — the  equivalent  of  the  South  Sea 
fig-leaf ! 

She  still  danced  on,  a  fascinating  being,  with  the 
golden  light  of  some  witchery  in  her  eyes.  Her  clustered 
tresses  were  distinctly  visible  by  the  pale  glimmerings 


42  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

of  the  moon  that  silvered  the  huge  colonnades  of  the 
stage.  And,  all  the  while  she  danced,  she  sang  an  ear- 
haunting  melody,  swaying  her  limbs,  a  scarlet  blossom 
nestling  in  the  hollow  of  her  bosom.  "Aue!  Aue! 
Talofa ! "  came  from  the  lips  of  the  tiers  of  gay  war- 
riors and  great  high  chiefs  who  squatted  in  the  royal 
boxes.  When  the  handsome  young  chief,  Tusita  Le  Salu 
— the  head-dancer's  affianced — stepped  down  from  his 
perch  in  the  breadfruit  tree  on  the  stage,  the  hubbub 
was  immense.  He  at  once  faced  the  dancer  in  a  god- 
like style,  and  commenced  to  sing  a  duet  with  her.  They 
danced  and  tumbled  about  in  a  marvellous  way.  And 
when  she  lifted  the  pretty  blue  sarong  robe  up  to  her 
knees,  I  distinctly  heard  the  aged  O  Le  Tao  groan 
through  some  pathetic  realization  over  his  departed 
youth.  Yet  the  most  fastidious  could  have  gazed  with 
delight  on  that  scene:  the  whole  thing  was  fairy-like, 
the  girl's  dancing  creating  an  atmosphere  that  was  full 
of  poetic  mystery  and  nothing  more. 

The  festival's  orchestra  helped  in  no  small  way  to 
enhance  the  poetic  beauty  of  the  whole  scene.  The  bam- 
boo flutes  and  bone-clappers  (made  from  the  skeletons 
of  dead  chiefs)  played  a  suitable  accompaniment  to  the 
many  "  turns "  that  I  witnessed.  The  special  music 
that  was  performed  on  this  occasion  was  something 
between  a  Marquesan  Tapriata  and  a  Samoan  Siva  dance. 
Though  I  cannot  reproduce  the  moaning  of  the  re- 
sounding seas  on  the  shore  below  or  the  echoes  in  the 
mountains,  I  give  here  an  impressionist  piano-forte  ar- 
rangement of  the  wild  music  I  heard  that  night. 

It  is  many  years  since  O  Le  Tao  departed  for  the 
legendary  splendours  of  his  beloved  shadowland :  that 
much  I  certainly  know.  For,  on  a  voyage  bound  for 
the  Malay  Archipelago,  not  so  long  ago,  my  ship  put 
into  Samoa,  and,  standing  in  the  small  village  cemetery 


SAMOA:  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS        43 

near  Safuta,  I  gazed  in  sorrow  on  a  little  wooden  cross, 
and  distinctly  made  out  these  words,  written  in  English 
and  Samoan: 

"  Here  lieth  the  mortal  remains  of  High  Chief 

O  LE  TAG 

Died,  aged  83,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord,   1903." 
"  In   my   Father's   House   are   Many   Mansions." 

Gazing  on  that  grave,  I  realized  the  briefness  of  all 
living  things,  be  they  great  or  small.  There  was  some- 
thing pathetic  too  in  so  humble  a  tomb  for  one  who 
had  dwelt  in  such  imaginative  splendour.  For  the  is- 
land nightingale  still  sang  its  passionate  song  in  the 
breadfruit,  as  the  same  aged  tamanu  trees  sighed  in 
their  glory  by  the  sea.  But,  doubtless,  the  children  of 
a  new  age  still  whisper  his  name  in  wonder,  telling 
how  he  was  favoured  by  the  goddess  Pafuto  for  the 
majesty  and  inborn  virtue  of  his  mighty  heart. 

When  I  left  O  Le  Tao's  hospitable  homestead  it  was 
with  feelings  of  regret,  and  it  was  a  long  time  before 
I  returned  to  Samoa.  Brief  as  was  my  stay  with  that 
old  chief,  it  was  of  long  enough  duration  to  influence 
me;  indeed,  I  might  say  that  I  became  a  semi-pagan 
too.  Cenerita  no  longer  pointed  in  vain  to  the  moonlit 
mountains,  attempting  to  show  my  blind  eyes  the 
shadow-gods  that  she  declared  were  stalking  across  the 
moon-ridden  hills — I  too  saw  them!  I  became  a  veri- 
table heathen.  My  personality  became  robed  in  the  weird 
atmosphere  of  pagan  dreams.  Civilization  fell  from  me 
like  an  immaculate  tall  hat  knocked  off  one's  head  with 
a  brick.  The  stern,  dull,  drab  colour  of  the  world 
changed  for  me.  The  bright-winged  katafa,  the  brown- 
robed  O  Le  ntao  bird,  and  bronzed-winged  Samoan  doves 
became  warm-throated  goddesses  sitting  in  the  bread- 


44  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

fruit  trees  over  our  heads,  their  eyes  bright  with  dis- 
covery as  I  played  heathenish  melodies  and  Cenerita  sang. 
I  was  happy  enough,  for  I  lived  in  a  small  native  house 
all  alone;  it  had  two  rooms  and  was  allotted  me  by  the 
kindness  of  O  Le  Tao.  That  hut  was  my  tiny  grand 
ancestral  hall.  Just  beyond  my  threshold  waved  the 
plumes  of  my  coat-of-arms — a  coco-nut  tree  crowned 
with  a  tawny  bunch  of  fruit.  My  clock,  far  away  over 
the  wide  waters  of  my  blue  demesne,  chimed  each  sun- 
set on  the  wave!  Sometimes,  when  I  played  my  violin 
far  into  the  night,  I  saw  ghostly  shadows  moving  under 
my  lovely  garden  trees;  then  I  knew  that  I  had  awak- 
ened the  wild  people  of  another  world,  who  came  to 
listen  with  delight  to  the  Tusitala  of  the  "  magic-stick  " 
from  the  lands  beyond  the  setting  suns.  Sometimes  I 
would  invite  Tamariki,  Cenerita,  and  a  few  more  sweet- 
minded  Samoan  children  to  spend  the  evening  with  me. 
They  would  sing  part-songs,  melodies  of  which  none 
knew  the  composer,  wonderful  strains  that  had  been 
mysteriously  blown  into  some  old  Samoan  musician's  soul 
from  the  moonlit  ocean  caves.  Crude  as  some  of  those 
songs  were,  I  heard  the  true  note.  Metaphorically  speak- 
ing, I  threw  all  my  music  studies  away.  Away  with 
such  rubbish!  No  western  music  ever  thrilled  me  as  I 
was  thrilled  by  the  haunting  poetry  of  wild  sweet  sounds 
such  as  I  heard  on  those  Samoan  nights.  It  often  seemed 
unbelievable,  dream-like,  when  I  sat  on  a  fibre  mat  be- 
fore the  limelight  of  the  stars  and  whiffed  the  odours 
of  wild  flowers  and  listened  to  the  perfect  strains  of 
that  great  University  of  Samoan  elemental  musical  art. 
Often  when  I  heard  the  final  chant  of  some  musical 
genius  I  would  arise  and  cheer  loudly,  as  the  rough,  tat- 
tooed audience  beat  their  drums  and  whistled  their  en- 
cores. Sometimes  a  sun-varnished  maid  would  stand 
before  the  forest  audience  and  sing  some  masterpiece 


SAMOA:  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS        45 


MARQUESAN   TAPRIATA. 

(  Dance.  )  A.  S.  M. 

Andante. 


Piano. 


-* 1*-, -1* N- 


3^^£ 


#»/    Drum  effects. 


-* N 


JUJ    1    fTES 


etc. 


^r^^ 


.»_».«  > 


r*l  J  J  -*.*** 


Tambourine"     •     * 


g 


46  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

that  expressed  all  the  impassioned  melody  of  music's 
far-away,  forgotten  childhood.  I  would  hear  the  sea- 
winds  sigh  their  long-drawn  accompaniment  across  the 
lovely  wild-stringed  harp  of  forest  trees;  a  cloud  would 
pass  away  from  the  moon  and  so  lift  a  great  silver 
curtain  of  ghostly  light  from  the  leafy,  gnarled  colon- 
nades. And  then  the  dusky,  star-eyed  prima  donna  of 
the  forest  would  bow  with  a  grace  that  was  seemingly 
quite  out  of  place  as  one  listened  to  the  wild  hubbub 
of  the  fierce-eyed,  tawny  men  who  waved  their  arms  as 
they  cheered  from  the  orchestral  stalls  of  jungle,  bush, 
and  fern.  Such  sights,  such  experiences  might  well  turn 
the  brain  of  a  much  more  sober  head  than  I  claim  to 
possess. 

I'd  sooner  be  a  pagan  in  this  hut, 

Wherein  the  singing  spheres  creep  thro'  my  door, 

And  dance  and  dance  upon  my  bedroom  floor, 

As  'tween  the  sheets  I  watch  with  eyes  unshut, 

And  on  my  bed-rail,  wailing  o'er  the  din, 

A  gnat  plays  on  its  tiny  violin! 

I'm  wrapt   in   some  fine  madness  of  a  sense 
That  robes  me  with  the  magic  of  those  things 
That    lend    imagination   lyric-wings, 
Imparadising  all  my  dreams  intense. 
Twill  fade  away,  I  know,  and  once  again 
I  shall  half-weep — to  find  I  am  quite  sane ! 

Alas !    I've  worshipped  stricken  things  called  "  Men  " ; 
I've  travelled  down  their  groves  and  found  their  light 
Hid  magic  splendours  of  the  glorious  night 
Of  things  unseen.     And  now? — clear  to  my  ken, 
The  sad  old  trees  are  whispering  on  the  wind 
The  harmonies  that  maestros  seek  to  find! 

Last  night  those  old  trees  said :  "  Oh,  brother,  stay ! 
That  song  you  played  just  now  we  seem  to  know, 
We  heard  it  sung  a  million  years  ago!" 


SAMOA:  FIRST  IMPRESSIONS        47 

I  said  "  It's  mine !  "    They  sighed.    I  passed  away ; 

And  even  the  flowers  along  the  lonely  track 

Said:   "Poor,  brief  thing  with  feet  and  weary  back." 

'Twas  then  the  River,  old  and  full  of  tears, 
Stopped  by  the  hills  and  called,  inquired  of  me — 
"  Comrade,  is  this  the  right  way  to  the  sea  ?  " 
I  kissed  its  breast,  I  soothed  its  wandering  fears 
As  on  we  tramped;  then,  at  the  close  of  day, 
It  said  "  Good-bye,  old  friend,"  and  crept  away. 

And  now? — a  beauteous  melody  I  hear, 
As  constellations  tumbling  from  the  skies, 
Are  dancing  on  the  floor  before  my  eyes; 
Nor  do  I  dream  at  all,  for,  sitting  near, 
A  gnat  plays  perfectly  the  sweeping  strain 
That  Man's  ambitious  mind  strives  for — in  vain! 

I  could  cry  out  in  spite  to  think  for  years 

I've  sought  applause,  played  to  sad  men  and  kings, 

To  find,  at  last,  the  universe,  of  all  things, 

Lo,  hires  a  gnat  to  make  the  starry  spheres 

Trip  to  and  fro,  go  gaily  o'er  and  o'er 

In  perfect  time  across  my  bedroom  floor! 

And  still  they  dance  and  dance,  and  still  the  trees 

Sigh  grand  adagios  as  that  maestro 

Sits  on  my  bed-rail   sweeping  from  its  bow 

The  music  of  the  grand  infinite  seas, 

Till  'neath  the  sheets  I  hide  my  head  for  shame 

To  think,  alas,  a  gnat  achieves  such  fame! 

After  leaving  O  Le  Tao  I  came  across  a  kind  of  South 
Sea  Mozart.  He  was  a  young  Samoan  of  about  four- 
teen years.  He  possessed  a  cheap  German  fiddle,  and  on 
its  frayed  strings  extemporized  melodies  of  the  weirdest 
beauty. 

"What's  that  song,  Pango-Pango  ?  "  said  I. 

He  shook  his  curly  head  and  said,  "  Me  knower  not, 
nice  songer  earner  me  out  of  win'  (wind)  of  the  forest, 
from  moan  of  sea-cave  and  stars  of  big  sky-land." 


48  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

Saying  that,  he  once  more  placed  his  fiddle  ('cello 
style)  between  his  knees,  and  performed  a  melody  that 
might  well  have  haunted  the  brain  of  a  Brahms,  a  Schu- 
bert, or  an  Elgar.  He  was  a  handsome  little  fellow, 
with  beautiful  bird-like  eyes.  He  was  absolutely  un- 
conscious of  the  gift  he  possessed.  He  seemed,  to  me, 
the  sun- varnished,  perfect-limbed  personification  of  Mu- 
sic itself,  Music's  youth,  light-winged,  passionate,  beau- 
tiful with  elemental  sweetness,  the  ecstasy  of  melancholy 
and  inartistic  carelessness.  He  played  to  his  shadow  in 
the  lagoons.  There  was  a  fascinating  witchery  in  all 
his  ways.  Yet  I  doubt  whether  such  a  soul  as  Pango's 
could  ever  develop  into  that  stage  of  music  which  men 
call  "  Classic."  His  genius  was  the  genius  of  youth, 
and  could  never  grow  old,  and,  rusting,  develop  into 
the  austere  ossification  of  the  fashionable  musical  cran- 
ium, that  awful  unvibrant  curvature  of  the  musical  spine 
that  scorns  the  melody  of  beauteous  youth.  Pango  was 
as  natural  in  his  art  as  are  the  flowers  and  birds  on  the 
hillside.  He  could  never  have  attained  that  decrepitude 
of  imagination  that  invests  itself  in  a  robe  of  artistries, 
making  sad  old  men  and  women  imagine  they  hear  the 
beautiful  by  having  their  unresponsive  spines  forcibly 
shaken  by  the  thunderous  crash,  the  multitudinous  rum- 
ble and  groan  of  artificial  musical  art.  Ah,  memory  of 
Pango!  Though  a  true  musician,  he  would  have  been 
nowhere  as  a  music-hall  composer.  Nor  could  he  place 
suggestive  words  to  music.  He  lacked  British  spiciness, 
too.  But  I  vow  that  he  did  put  the  stars  and  forest 
streams  to  music  as  he  sat  out  on  the  promontory's  edge 
by  moonlight,  looking  like  some  young  Grecian  god  as 
he  hummed  and  played  a  strain  that  sounded  like  in- 
finity in  pain.  To  my  gjreat  regret  I  lost  sight  of  Pango- 
Pango  for  quite  a  year  after  that.  The  fact  is,  I  left 
Samoa.  How  I  left,  and  of  the  wonders  of  the  sea,  I 
will  tell  in  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER  II.  TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI 

I  ship  with  a  genuine  Old-time  Crew — Poetic  Night- 
mares— Tattooed  Manuscripts  of  the  Seas! — I  learn  the 
Art  of  Forcible  Expression — Tar-pots — The  Storm — 
Washed  Overboard — Papeete — Pokara — How  the  first 
Coco-nuts  came — Star  Myths. 

THERE  are  many  sceptics  who  may  disbelieve  my 
account   of  the  crew  of   the   "  Zangwahee,"   but 
away  with  such  people! 

About  a  week  after  losing  sight  of  Pango-Pango  I 
went  across  to  Savaii  Isle.  I  had  heard  that  there  was 
an  old  sailing-ship  anchored  off  Matautu,  and  that  she 
was  bound  on  a  long  voyage  across  the  Pacific.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  wonder  I  felt  on  first  sighting  the 
"  Zangwahee  "  as  she  lay  out  in  the  bay.  "  Looks  like 
an  old  Spanish  galleon,"  I  thought,  as  I  stared  at  the 
yellowish  canvas  sails  and  the  antiquated  rigging  imaged 
in  the  dark-toned  waters  of  the  bay.  For  a  moment  I 
eyed  the  outlines  of  that  craft  with  intense  curiosity. 
The  beautifully  carven  emblematical  figure-head  (a  god- 
dess with  outstretched  praying  hands)  kept  my  eyes  spell- 
bound. The  poetry  of  the  artist's  brain,  the  magic  that 
Had  inspired  the  human  hands  to  carve  such  outlines, 
seemed  to  enter  my  soul,  as  the  light  of  the  setting  sun 
touched  the  saffron-hued  sails  and  glimmered  across  the 
silent,  blue  lagoons.  The  movements  of  a  man's  form 
on  her  deck  made  me  realize  the  truth;  for  in  some 
credulous  fancy  I  had  half  thought  that  she  was  some 
long-lost  treasure-trove  ship  that  had  lain  there  for  cen- 
turies ! 

49 


50  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

"Where  you  bound  for?"  I  cried,  hailing  a  weird- 
looking  seadog  who  had  suddenly  stared  over  the  bul- 
wark side. 

Placing  his  hand  to  his  lips,  he  yelled  back,  "  Bound 
for  Tarhoyti!" 

"  Where  the  h 's  Tarhoyti?  "  I  yelled  back.  But 

no  response  came;  the  old  sailor  simply  pulled  his  dilap- 
idated cap  over  his  eyes  and  spat  melancholy-wise  into 
the  ocean.  In  a  few  moments  I  had  taken  one  of  the 
beach  canoes  and  paddled  out  to  the  "  Zangwahee." 
Clambering  up  the  rope  gangway,  I  went  on  board.  As 
I  stood  on  deck,  I  stared  in  astonishment.  The  crew, 
who  were  busy  coiling  up  the  ropes  on  deck,  all  stood 
up,  and  looked  like  rows  of  mummies  clad  in  rags. 
They  were  wrinkled  and  sun-tanned  to  a  yellowish  hue ! 
They  might  have  been  the  crew  of  the  "  Flying  Dutch- 
man," so  weird  did  they  look,  those  old-time  sailormen. 
And  talk  about  blasphemous  oaths,  when  I  meekly  asked 
if  they  thought  there  was  any  chance  of  a  job! 

"  Captain  Vanderdecken  aboard  ?  "  I  said,  hoping  to 
break  the  ice  by  such  an  evident  bit  of  humour  on  my 
part.  One  old  sailorman,  who  had  a  Rip  Van  Winkle 
look  about  him,  stared  at  my  blue  serge  suit  of  the  nine- 
teenth century,  and  then,  touching  his  cap  respectful- 
like,  said,  "  Thar's  the  Ole  Man  aft;  cawn't  ye  see 
'im?" 

Looking  aft,  I  got  a  bit  of  a  shock,  I  can  tell  you. 
The  skipper  looked  as  ancient  as  his  ship!  He  had  a 
monstrous  grey  beard  and  O,  the  expression  on  his  face ! 
I  might  have  made  a  bolt  over  the  side  but  for  the  fact 
that  he  had  already  spotted  me.  Going  straight  aft,  I 
looked  him  in  the  face  and  said,  "  Any  chance  of  a  job, 
sir?" 

Metaphorically  speaking,  he  picked  me  up  by  the  heels, 
smelt  me,  looked  at  my  teeth,  screwed  my  neck  round 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        51 

twice,  examined  my  spine,  thumped  me  on  the  ribs,  and 
said,  "  UM  !  " 

I  fancied  I  saw  the  dust  of  ages  on  his  bony  neck  as 
a  whiff  of  wind  came  across  the  Pacific  and  divided 
the  tresses  of  his  beard.  Then  he  looked  down  on  the 
deck  and  said,  "  Wha's  thawt?" 

"  My  violin,  sir,"  I  responded,  as  curiosity  toned 
down  much  of  the  funk  I  was  in. 

"Ho  ho!  He  he!  Haw  haw!"  he  yelled,  as  he 
gazed  on  the  deck  at  my  fiddle-case.  In  obedience  to  his 
commands,  I  at  once  took  my  instrument  from  its  case 
and  commenced  to  play!  It  was  like  seeing  God  smile 
as  his  wrinkled  face  lit  up  with  delight.  "  Yoom'll  do," 
he  said.  Then,  taking  hold  of  me  by  the  scruff  of  the 
neck,  he  pitched  me  headlong  down  the  alley-way  into 
the  dingy  cuddy  (saloon).  Alighting  gently  on  a  rather 
soft-plushed  settee  of  prehistoric  pattern,  I  murmured  my 
thanks.  You  see,  I  had  sailed  on  sailing  ships  and  well 
knew  that  the  treatment  I  was  receiving  was  of  marked 
courtesy  in  comparison  with  that  which  I  had  experienced 
whilst  on  the  Clipper  Lines. 

So  did  I  become  a  member  of  a  crew  who,  I 
should  think,  were  the  last  of  the  genuine  old  sea- 
dogs. 

Next  day  the  yards  were  squared  to  a  stiff,  fair  breeze, 
and  to  the  strain  of  some  old  Spanish  chanty  I  found 
myself  bound  for  Tahiti!  My  description  of  this  voy- 
age and  the  crew  may  appear  like  some  gross  exaggera- 
tion ;  but  I  can  assure  the  reader  that  I  could  not  possi- 
bly describe  that  crew  and  their  ancient  craft  without 
appearing  to  exaggerate.  I  even  remember  the  thrill 
that  went  through  me  when  I  saw  the  ancient-looking 
yellowish  sails  belly  to  the  Pacific  wind  as  we  passed 
beyond  the  barrier  reefs  and  caught  the  outer  foam. 
But  alas !  the  thrill  passed  away  when  I  sat  down  in  the 


52  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

forecastle  with  those  marvellous  old  shellbacks  and  had 
my  first  meal. 

I  might  say  that  the  salt-horse  and  biscuits  of  the 
"  Zangwahee  "  were  as  ancient  as  the  crew  appeared  to 
be.  Perhaps  it  was  natural  enough  that  there  should 
be  an  affinity  between  the  ancient  members  of  that  crew 
(a  few  members  belonged  to  my  own  century)  and  the 
horses  that  had  apparently  roamed  the  primeval  Arabian 
plains!  Only  a  great  poet  could  describe  the  antique 
"  Menu  "  of  that  forecastle.  I  have  a  brilliant  imagi- 
nation, and  so  it  was  easy  enough  for  me  to  imagine 
that  the  corn  that  those  biscuits  were  made  of  had  ri- 
pened in  Assyrian  cornfields !  I  only  had  to  eat  a  f oc'sle 
biscuit  to  enter  at  once  the  realms  of  enchantment.  Just 
as  good  wine  intoxicates  the  brain,  the  fumes  of  those 
cast-iron  mouldy  biscuits  created  a  gassy  atmosphere  in 
my  stomach  and  inspired  my  brain  with  weird  poetic 
fancies.  I  imagined  I  saw  Ruth  standing  amid  the  "  alien 
corn";  and,  taking  another  nibble,  I  had  visions  of  old 
rivers  flowing  by  ancient  walls,  and  of  the  desert  towers 
of  the  Pharaohs!  I  saw  tired  harvest  girls,  sickle  in 
hand,  sleeping  by  their  garnered  heaps  under  Assyrian 
suns.  Yes,  reader,  such  dreams  were  mine  when  I  had 
poetic  nightmares  after  partaking  of  the  "  Zangwahee's  " 
forecastle  menu  of  salt-horse  and  hard-tack. 

Though  I  could  fill  reams  with  the  wonders  of  the 
"  Zangwahee's "  menu  and  all  that  my  brain  fancied, 
I  have  only  space  to  set  down  the  stern  facts  that  apply 
to  the  "  Zangwahee's  "  crew.  As  I've  said,  they  were 
hairy-chested  men,  real  seadogs  of  another  age.  To  see 
their  thick-bearded  lips  and  their  crooked  noses,  as  they 
sang  and  climbed  aloft,  made  me  half  fancy  that  I  had 
been  blown  across  a  century  into  the  Nelson  period. 
Notwithstanding  the  old  skipper's  rough  exterior,  I  found 
him  quite  human.  Surely  few  young  men  who  have 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        53 

gone  to  sea  have  had  the  experiences  I  have  had,  for 
that  old  skipper  would  get  blind  drunk,  and,  lying  in 
his  bunk,  roar  mighty  encores  as  I  played  selections  on 
my  violin  to  him!  He  loved  sea  hymns,  and,  when  I 
played  "  For  those  in  peril  on  the  sea,"  he  would  mum- 
ble deep  in  his  beard,  his  eyes  becoming  wet  with  tears! 
Though  I  liked  that  strange  old  captain  (and  I  believed 
he  liked  me),  my  chief  delight  was  to  come  off  watch 
and  sit  in  the  forecastle  with  the  crew  as  they  tugged 
their  beards,  shook  their  fists,  cursed  the  mate,  the  skip- 
per, and  the  Universe!  As  they  sat  on  their  sea-chests 
in  the  dim-lit  forecastle,  they  looked  exactly  what  they 
were — genuine  high  priests  who  worshipped  at  the  altar 
of  monstrous  yarns  and  the  best  rum! 

Some  of  them  had  fine,  fierce,  kind  eyes,  and  bearded 
lips  that  never  tired  of  yelling  forth  the  wild  mystery 
of  the  sea  and  oaths  of  inexhaustible  beauty!  They 
were  able  to  express,  in  one  neat  phrase,  the  pictorial 
ruggedness  of  their  adventurous,  unholy  careers.  They 
were  true  sea-poets — possessing  forcible  descriptive  ge- 
nius that  enabled  one  to  conjure  up  weird  visions  of  the 
wondrous  countries  they  had  seen  and  the  "  charming  " 
women  they  had  known.  And  I  vow  that  they  made 
their  verse  scan,  subtle  verse  devoid  of  any  direct  in- 
fluence from  the  idyllic  school  of  romanticism.  Some 
hailed  from  'Frisco,  Japan,  Callao,  New  York,  London 
Town,  Norway,  etc.,  so  there  was  a  splendid  mixture  of 
the  world's  maritime  literature.  Consequently  that  fore- 
castle's audience  made  a  terrific  school  of  the  "  Sturm 
und  Drang "  persuasion,  a  school  that  fairly  hummed 
with  the  unrestraint  of  Rousseau's  Confessions,  at  the 
same  time  favouring  Mallarme  and  Browning  for  con- 
centrated expression.  A  forcible  accent  came  on  their 
rhymes  too !  One  epic  punch-rhyme  would  make  one's 
eyes  see  stars!  What  hairy  fists  they  had!  But  those 


54  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

older  hands  seldom  quarrelled.  O  Le  Tao's  frame  was 
as  bare  as  an  egg  when  compared  to  the  hieroglyphics 
and  tattooed  sea-heraldry  inscribed  on  their  carcases.  I 
had  never  seen  such  living  art  before,  such  brazen  dis- 
play as  they  revealed  when  they  sat  by  their  bunks 
and  undressed  in  that  forecastle.  Watching  by  the  mingy 
oil-lamp  that  hung  from  the  fo'c'sle  roof-beam,  I  seemed 
to  be  witnessing  some  life-like,  wondrous  Madame  Tus- 
saud's  waxwork  of  the  sea,  as  one  by  one  they  pulled 
their  coats  and  vests  off,  revealing  their  herculean,  mus- 
cular frames  in  the  nude !  What  a  sight  I  beheld ! — the 
tattooed  storied-history  of  their  adventurous  careers !  On 
one  old  sea-weary  sailor's  chest  was  engraved,  in  curves 
of  red  and  blue,  a  goddess-like  girl,  the  one  great  roman- 
tic love  of  his  youth.  She  was  exquisitely  designed,  and 
one  unloosed  tress  fell  down  to  her  bare  shoulders.  I 
was  fascinated  as,  leaning  forward,  I  made  out  the 
faint  words  inscribed  beneath  the  feet — "  My  Lucille," 
then  again,  over  the  crown  of  hair,  "  Mizpah."  Others 
were  veritable  living  volumes,  depicting  all  those  things 
that  influence  sailormen  in  the  seaports  of  the  world : 
shapely-limbed  maids  of  Shanghai,  Tokio,  Callao,  'Frisco, 
New  York,  and  London  Town  adorned  their  figures. 
"My  True  love  Harriet,"  Lucille,  Unita,  Mary  Ann, 
Bill's  Alice,  Ducky-Sarah,  Angelina,  Una,  Fan-Tan,  all 
were  there,  pug-nosed,  and  some,  alas,  indelicately  un- 
derclad.  I  do  not  exaggerate  when  I  say  that  I  was  in- 
itiated into  the  storied,  tragical  history  of  the  oceans, 
of  wrecks,  the  morals  and  poetic  characteristics  of  strange 
women-kind  in  distant  lands,  and  the  shattered  hopes 
of  faithful  sailormen,  as  I  studied  those  weather-beaten 
manuscripts  of  the  seas.  For  many  of  those  tattooesque 
designs  were  sentimental  symbols  telling  of  fidelity  in 
love,  some  deep  faith  in  "Alice,  dated  1879,"  and  lo, 
the  recorded  disillusionment  with  the  later  date — 1880— 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        55 

the  design  of  a  heart  with  a  dagger  through  it,  reveal- 
ing something  of  the  bitterness  brought  to  those  old  sail- 
ors' hearts  through  the  faithlessness  of  those  old  loves 
whose  names  were  tattooed  on  their  massive,  hairy  chests 
and  muscular  arms!  It  would  indeed  be  a  weird  chap- 
ter of  memoirs  that  told  of  my  brazen  explorations,  of 
my  astonished  exclamations,  as  I  curiously  scanned  and 
studied  the  tattooesque  history  of  those  violent  old  man- 
uscripts. Many  of  the  inscriptions  had  faded  with  age. 
Old  Hans,  who  had  sailed  the  seas  fifty  years,  before 
I  was  born,  would  yarn  for  hours  as  I  frequently  in- 
terrupted to  stare  at  his  chest,  his  arms,  wrists,  and 
fingers. 

"Who  was  she?"  I'd  ask. 

He  would  shake  his  head  sadly  and  tell  me  how  Unita 
jilted  him;  how  Kum-Kum  slept  in  Tokio,  and  Leila  in 
Kensal  Green,  and  Singa-Samber  in  some  old  cemetery 
in  the  South  Seas.  Once  he  put  forth  his  tarry  thumb- 
nail, and  by  the  mingy  gleams  of  the  fo'c'sle's  hanging 
oil-lamp  helped  me  to  trace  out  a  faint  figure  on  his  big 
wrinkled  chest,  and,  lo !  I  plainly  discerned  the  face,  legs, 
and  shoulders  of  some  old  pal  hanging  on  a  foreign  gib- 
bet! I  often  thought  that  I  must  be  dreaming  it  all, 
as  they  sat  there  in  the  shadows,  yarning  away,  as  the 
Pacific  combers  banged  against  the  vessel's  side,  and  we 
rolled  along  on  our  lonely  course  bound  for  old  Papeete. 
It  took  some  time  before  that  crew  acknowledged  me 
as  one  of  their  legitimate  members,  for  they  were  often 
cantankerous  devils. 

Ah,  memory  of  it  all — and  my  first  oath !  For,  though 
I  had  been  many  voyages  and  roughed  it  "  on  the  walla- 
by "  with  old  sundowners  in  Australia  and  New  Zea- 
land, I  had  not  blossomed  into  a  true  sea-poet  of  the 
great  unromantic  school  of  the  oceans.  No  unfledged 
prima  donna,  no  debutante,  ever  rehearsed  her  first  part 


56  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

as  I  did,  I  know.  I'd  show  them  how  to  swear!  After 
deep  meditation,  I  gathered  together  the  finest  swear 
words  extant.  Over  and  over  again  I  repeated  those 
vile  phrases  until  they  fell  glibly,  naturally,  from  my 
tongue — full-blooded  adjectives  that  resolved  into  mon- 
strous illegitimate  pronouns  that  I  may  not  print  here! 
I  longed  to  publish  those  words,  so  to  speak,  to  in- 
flict them,  sear  them  on  the  soul  of  one  of  those  can- 
tankerous old  seadogs,  for  they  played  many  scurvy 
tricks  upon  me,  such  tricks  as  must  remain  unrecorded. 
Though  many  opportunities  presented  themselves  before 
I  got  the  swear-phrases  off  by  heart,  I  had  to  wait  quite 
four  days  before  I  could  get  my  own  back  in  a  legiti- 
mate way.  At  last  the  desired  moment  came.  It  was 
just  at  sunset.  I  was  standing  on  deck  gazing  on  the 
horizon,  admiring  the  expanse  of  peace,  the  ineffable 
beauty  of  awakening  stars  and  approaching  night.  Sud- 
denly the  modern  sailor,  who  hailed  from  a  local  pub, 
Houndsditch,  London,  walked  out  of  the  forecastle, 
looked  at  me  as  I  stared  over  the  bulwark,  then  yawned, 
and  dabbed  me  negligently — smash!  in  the  mouth  with 
a  coal-tar  brush,  and  calmly  asked  me  if  "  Me  mother 
knew  I  was  out  ?  " 

I  clapped  my  hand  to  my  tar-smeared  face;  then  I 
let  forth  my  pent-up  volley  of  oaths,  which  I  well  punc- 
tuated with  a  splendid  driving  blow  on  that  son  of 
Houndsditch's  nasal  organ.  The  applause  and  calls  of 
encore  from  the  whole  crew,  who  had  rushed  up  to  see 
the  fight,  were  terrific.  They  cheered  and  cheered.  Then 
I  gave  them  something  more  to  cheer  about — I  picked 
up  the  nearest  tar-pot — there  was  a  row  of  them  by  the 
galley  door — and  crash !  it  fitted  like  a  cap  over  my  op- 
ponent's cranium,  hiding  his  brow,  eyes,  nose,  and  mouth 
too !  It  was  splendid.  The  cheer  that  followed  that  un- 
rehearsed act  of  mine  soothed  my  ruffled  nerves  consid- 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        57 

erably.  I  was  declared  the  winner,  and,  metaphorically 
speaking,  was  awarded  on  the  spot  the  Nobel  prize  for 
swearing!  I  gained  and  maintained  the  highest  respect 
from  those  seasoned  sailormen.  They  nudged  me  in  the 
ribs  when  "  Houndsditch  "  passed  me  on  deck,  and  re- 
viewed my  contributions  to  ocean-poetry  in  the  most 
friendly  spirit  as  I  swore  and  swore.  So  have  I  slowly 
and  painfully  educated  myself  that  I  may  compete  with 
my  fellow-man  and  fight  the  world  with  my  sleeves  up. 
I  recall  that  I  was  quite  comfortable  on  board  after  that 
fight.  Ah!  I  often  think  to  myself,  that  if  I  were  a  king 
or  a  millionaire,  how  I  should  purchase  thousands  of 
tar-pots,  and  fix  them — crash! — over  the  heads  of  some 
people  I  know.  But  why  digress  to  record  one's  per- 
sonal viciousness?  Except  for  the  incidents  recorded 
it  was  a  monotonous  voyage;  and  I  was  delighted  when 
we  caught  a  good  trade  wind  and,  with  all  sails  set,  the 
"  Zangwahee  "  fairly  danced  and  bowed  as  she  did  her 
ten  knots  toward  old  Papeete. 

I  had  been  to  Papeete  before,  so  knew  what  I  was 
up  against.  I  wasn't  touring  the  world  with  a  camera 
and  a  thousand  a  year;  and,  though  "  South  Sea  palm- 
clad  isles  and  wine-dark  seas  "  sounds  poetic  and  com- 
fortable like,  you  have  to  rough  it  a  bit  if  you've  only 
got  fourpence  halfpenny  in  the  exchequer.  But  these 
facts  didn't  trouble  me  overmuch,  since  I  could  play  the 
fiddle  and  swear. 

The  cook  of  the  "  Zangwahee  "  was  a  most  grotesque 
character.  He  swore  like  the  much-maligned  trooper, 
banged  his  pots  and  pans  about,  and  behaved  like  a  luna- 
tic when  we  stood  by  the  galley-door  and  held  our  noses, 
as  we  cynically  praised  the  terrible  effluvia  of  the  cooking 
salt-horse.  He,  too,  belonged  to  another  age.  He  was 
sun-tanned  to  a  yellowish  hue,  and  had  a  large,  drooping 
nose  with  bristly  hair  on  the  end.  He  would  purse  his 


58  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

lips  up  and,  giving  me  a  contemptuous  glance  as  I  smelt 
the  galley  odours,  would  say :  "  You  call  yerself  a  saylor- 
man!  yer  God-damned  galoot,  clear  art  of  it!"  But  in 
the  end  he  and  I  became  quite  chummy.  He  would  sit 
by  his  galley  doorway  and  tell  about  the  good  old  days, 
curse  the  modern  sailormen  and  seafaring  ways,  as  I 
agreed  with  all  he  had  to  say.  "  You  orter  been  a-living 
in  our  time,  when  men  was  sailors,"  he'd  say,  as  I  softly 
pressed  him  to  take  another  sip  of  rum  from  the  flask 
which  I  always  carried,  so  that  I  might  with  ease  bribe 
those  dogmatic  seafarers.  After  that  he  would  cook  a 
small  bit  of  salted  horse  in  fresh  water  instead  of  sea- 
water  for  my  especial  benefit.  He  even  gave  me  fresh- 
made  biscuits  at  times.  So  did  I  manage  to  exist  on 
the  "Zangwahee";  otherwise  I  should  have  been  buried 
over  the  side  and  gone  out  of  this  story  years  ago.  When 
rum  was  plentiful,  the  cook  would  stop  on  deck  dancing 
half  the  night.  Through  being  bow-legged,  he  looked 
like  some  mammoth  frog  clad  in  an  apron,  as  he  shuffled 
in  a  jig  in  the  moonlight,  close  by  his  galley  door.  The 
songs  he  sang  were  quite  tuneless,  consequently  he  sang 
and  sang.  He  would  fold  his  arms  on  his  breast  and 
open  his  mouth  like  a  puppet,  as  I  played  the  violin  and 
he  danced.  I've  never  played  an  obligate  to  a  frog's 
solo;  but  for  tune  and  tempo  give  me  the  frog!  (I  don't 
think  it's  usually  known,  but  the  Polynesian  swamp  frog 
was  the  original  inventor  of  the  syncopated  accent  of 
the  modern  cake-walk.)  Its  chant  goes: 

j»       j *         K    j  *, -Bis 

1==?      ~  I  *~f  •  I  -'     J— ^  I         H 

Clack,  click,       click.      Clack,         click,  clack. 

And  to  sit  in  a  South  Sea  forest  by  moonlight  and  hear 
an  old  marsh-frog  conduct  an  orchestra  composed  of 
the  weird  denizens  of  the  forest — the  Samoan  nightin- 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        59 

gale  wrapt  in  its  green  and  bluish  velvet  robe,  singing 
exquisitely  as  prima  donna,  the  mosquitoes  buzzing  on 
their  weird  flutes,  while  the  grey,  swallow-tailed  gnat, 
sitting  on  the  tall  fern-spray,  sweeps  majestic  strains 
from  its  wondrous  violin,  as  the  old  forest  trees  waltz — 
is  a  musical  treat  and  sight  to  be  ever  remembered. 

It  is  wonderful  what  we  mortals  can  see  and  hear 
when  we  keep  our  inward  ears  and  eyes  wide  open.  Of 
course,  such  sights  were  as  nothing  to  me;  I  had  long 
since  realized  that  the  great  truths  of  this  world  exist 
outside  the  realms  that  men  persist  in  erroneously  dub- 
bing "  Reality." 

It  was  an  engrossing  spectacle  to  watch  those  old- 
time  sailors  dance  on  deck  by  moonlight.  The  very 
winds  in  the  sails  seemed  to  sing  an  eerie  accompani- 
ment, as  the  weird  old  shellbacks  jigged  and  tossed  their 
arms  to  the  moon.  I'd  play  the  fiddle,  as  the  strain  of 
"  Oh,  oh  for  Rio  Grande !  "  came  ghostlike  from  the 
dancers'  bearded  lips.  It  looked  as  though  they  were 
the  ragged  phantom  crew  of  a  ghostly  ship,  as  they  shuf- 
fled on  deck,  their  sea-boots  going  "  Tip-er-te-tap-tum- 
per-te-thump-thump !  "  their  eyes  bright  with  merriment, 
as  they  opened  their  big,  tuneless  mouths  and  joined  in 
the  chorus.  Then  a  cloud  would  suddenly  pass  across 
the  moon's  face,  and  lo,  puff !  they  had  all  vanished,  gone, 
blown  overboard! 

I'd  stare  aghast,  and  see  lumps  of  ragged  clothes  and 
misty  stuff,  like  remnants  of  old  beards,  swept  off  on 
the  night  winds,  as  their  parchment-like  hands  clutched 
in  vain  at  the  clouds  in  space! 

Some  unimaginative  folk  might  have  sworn  that  it 
was  nothing  more  than  hovering  albatrosses  asleep  on 
the  wing,  floating  on  the  wind.  But  still,  it's  a  weird 
place  is  the  South  Sea. 

However,  in  the  morning,  there  they  were,  all  in  their 


60  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

bunks,  fast  asleep,  or  half  awake,  dipping  their  swollen 
heads  in  buckets  of  cool  sea-water — as  real  as  real  could 
be! 

With  all  that  voyage's  discomforts  I  found  it  in  no 
way  monotonous.  For  that  forecastle  was  a  wonderful 
breathing  library  of  stirring  adventure.  The  characters 
of  the  books  walked  about,  talked,  and  took  mighty  oaths 
if  one  dared  to  doubt  their  veracity. 

I  often  marvelled  how  any  shipping-office  officials  came 
to  engage  such  ancient-looking  sailormen.  They  looked 
infirm  and  useless.  I  sometimes  half  fancy  that  I 
dreamed  them,  or  that  I  am  quite  a  thousand  years  old, 
as  they  come  to  me  in  some  memory  of  the  night,  and 
dance  till  I  distinctly  hear  their  sea-boots  tapping  on  my 
bedroom  floor  in  this  old  inn.  Olaf  was  clean-shaven, 
and  was  so  wrinkled  and  tanned  that  he  looked  like  some 
neptuonic  mummy  clad  in  modern  duck-pants  and  a 
belt.  Steffan  wore  a  peculiar-shaped  bristly  beard  round 
his  neck  only,  which  looked  like  an  old,  frayed,  grey 
woolly  scarf,  a  fixture  round  his  throat.  Hans,  the  boat- 
swain, who  always  said  "  Thou  canst,"  and  "  thee,"  and 
"  shiver-me-timbers,"  would  look  straight  into  the  mate's 
eyes  and  say,  "  Avast  there,  you  lubber !  "  He  had  one 
enormous  tooth  that  protruded  from  his  compressed  lips, 
which  seemed  ever  grinning,  were  he  awake  or  asleep. 
At  other  times  he  would  remind  me  of  a  wonderfully 
carved  heathen  idol,  a  kind  of  South  Sea  Laocoon  that 
I  had  once  seen  in  a  tambu-house  in  New  Guinea.  For 
he  would  stand  on  deck  bathing  in  a  large  tub  that  hardly 
reached  to  his  knees,  his  muscles  and  veins  swollen,  viv- 
idly standing  out  as  though  through  some  mental  and 
physical  agony,  while  he  stared  on  the  skyline,  then  once 
again  scanned  his  tanned  arms  and  chest,  whereon  were 
tattooed  the  strange  names  of  women  he  had  known! 
Olwyn  Saga,  who  wore  a  beard  that  brushed  against  his 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        61 

hips  and  where  through  the  winds  whistled  eerie  melo- 
dies when  storms  blew,  had  cornflower-blue  eyes  that  had 
ogled  the  women  of  Shanghai  and  Callao  before  any 
modern  sailor  was  born. 

Even  the  skipper  would  tug  his  huge  beard  in  a  kind 
of  meditative  way  whenever  he  met  Olwyn  on  deck. 
As  for  the  mate,  a  Scot,  he  almost  apologized  before 
shouting  out  his  orders  to  those  grand  old  fathers  of 
the  sea.  Even  their  songs  sounded  like  echoes  from  an- 
other age,  as  the  old  fo'c'sle  dog,  Moses,  sat  upright  be- 
fore them,  tears  coursing  down  his  cheeks  as  the  strains 
seemingly  awakened  memories  of  other  days.  And  when 
Olwyn  jigged  in  the  forecastle  by  night,  the  hands  would 
sit  huddled  on  their  sea-chests,  their  chins  leaning  on  their 
horny  hands  as  they  dreamily  watched.  And  I  would 
fiddle  a  weird  obligate,  shivery-like,  as  I  stood  beneath 
the  fo'c'sle's  oil-lamp,  playing,  not  to  Olwyn's  dancing 
figure,  but  to  his  shadow  that  mimicked  him  as  it  bobbed 
up  and  down  in  the  gloom  of  the  bunks  and  wooden  bul- 
wark side,  first  to  port  and  then  to  starboard,  as,  folding 
his  arms  under  his  beard,  he  slewed  round  and  round! 
Only  the  shuffling  sounds  of  the  big  sea-boots,  "  Tump- 
er-te-tump-er-thump-er-te-thump,"  told  of  the  reality,  as 
I,  avoiding  Olwyn  and  staring  at  his  silently  moving 
shadow  in  the  gloom,  was  enabled  to  feed  my  imagina- 
tion and  extemporize  an  eerie  accompaniment  to  a  mel- 
ody that  had  been  sung  on  the  Spanish  Main  a  century 
before. 

It  was  in  the  hush  of  the  hot,  calm,  tropic  night,  when 
the  "  Zangwahee  "  wallowed  in  the  swell  and  plomped 
till  the  hanging  canvas  seemed  to  be  drumming  to  the 
destiny  of  the  marching  stars,  that  I  blessed  those  aged 
sailormen.  For,  as  they  yarned  and  yarned,  telling  of 
their  far-off  experiences,  my  admiration  for  them  became 
unbounded.  They  were  either  the  most  glorious  old  liars 


62  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

that  ever  existed,  or  had  lived  in  Olympian  times  when 
nothing  was  impossible  and  only  the  marvellous  occurred. 
Treasure-troves,  typhoons,  scented  merchandise  from  the 
Indies,  faithless  lovers,  dusky  beauties  on  mysterious  un- 
charted isles,  and  God  knows  what  else,  haunted  my 
dreams,  as  I,  at  last,  fell  asleep,  with  their  voices  still 
mumbling  in  my  ears.  Old  Hans,  who  smoked  a  filthy 
terra-cotta  clay  pipe  and  gassed  me  into  insensibility 
on  nights  of  sad  rememberings,  took  a  fancy  to  me.  I 
became  quite  interested  in  the  lonesome  dog-watches.  I'd 
sit  by  his  bunk,  and  he'd  point  to  the  faded  pictures  of 
the  foreign  women  he'd  known  and  shake  his  head. 
"When  did  she  die,  Hans?"  I'd  say,  as  I  pointed  to 
one  of  the  faded  outlines  of  his  bunk's  photographs. 

"  She  ? — why,  shipmate,  she  died  ages  ago !  "  Then 
I'd  hear  all  about  the  reality  of  that  shadowy  outline 
on  the  wooden  wall.  So  did  I  become  familiar  with 
the  inner  dramas  of  those  old  sailors'  lives.  Sometimes 
I'd  hear  things  that  made  a  shiver  go  down  my  spine, 
or,  rather,  down  where  the  remnants  of  my  spinal  col- 
umn remained,  for  the  mate  had  surely  broken  it  in 
three  places  (I  had  experienced  so  much  in  my  travels 
that  it  did  not  seem  strange  that  I  should  go  off  to  sea 
in  search  of  romance  and  lose  my  spine). 

"  You  must  be  mighty  old,  Hans,  to  have  experienced 
such  things,"  I  ventured  to  say,  as  he  yarned  on  one 
night.  Then,  so  that  he  might  see  that  I  wasn't  as  green 
as  he  appeared  to  think  I  was,  I  added,  "  Might  you 
have  met  Abraham  or  any  of  the  Pharaohs  in  your 
time?" 

For  a  moment  he  puffed  his  antique  pipe,  his  ringers 
toiling  away  as  he  stitched  the  fragments  of  his  ancient 
clothing  together;  for  quite  a  while  longer  his  chin 
pressed  his  white  beard  against  his  chest,  as  he  sat  in 
an  attitude  of  deep  thought.  Then  I  distinctly  observed 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        63 

an  amused  twinkle  shoot  into  his  pale  blue  eyes,  as,  sol- 
emnly shaking  his  head,  he  replied,  "  No,  I've  never 
'card  of  them  coves;  they  muster  'ave  been  born  after, 
my  time ! " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you're  older  than  Abra- 
ham ?  "  I  said  quietly. 

Hans  looked  steadily  at  me,  then  gave  me  a  solemn 
nudge  in  the  ribs.  And  then  I  knew  that  old  Hans 
had  been  a  bit  of  a  humorist  in  his  youth,  ages  ago! 
I  didn't  cotton  to  Steffan  as  keenly  as  I  did  to  Hans. 
The  fact  is,  he  would  get  drunk  and  shout  all  through 
the  night,  mind  you: 

Blow!   blow!  bully  boys,  blow— Of 
We're  bound,  bound  for  Callao — O ! 
We,  the  sailormen  of  long  ago — O ! 
So  let  the  winds  roar  what  they  know — O ! 
Blow!  blow!   bully  boys,  blow — O! 

Then  he'd  finish  up  by  expectorating  a  stream  of  tobacco 
juice  right  through  the  port-hole  on  the  figure-head's  di- 
shevelled hair!  (It  is  only  the  callow  youth  who  sees 
the  poetry  and  romance  of  carven  wood.)  But  even 
Steffan  became  emotional  when  he  opened  his  sea-chest 
and  took  forth  his  old  tattered  love-letters.  It  seemed 
unbelievable  as  I  listened  to  the  soft,  sweet  things  roman- 
tic girls  of  eastern  lands  had  written  in  praise  of  Steffan's 
eyes,  tender  ways,  and  figure !  Then  he  would  fold  each 
tattered  yellow  fragment  up,  and  moan  with  the  winds 
outside  in  the  foremast  rigging,  as  tears  coursed  down 
his  wrinkled  cheeks!  I  think  it  was  when  the  skipper 
mustered  the  crew  for  prayers,  aft  in  the  cuddy,  that 
those  old  sailormen  appeared  the  most  emotional.  It 
was  quite  evident  by  their  voices  that  they  believed  in 
a  Supreme  Being's  watchful  care  over  the  lot  of  old 
sailormen.  I  would  play  the  fiddle  as  they  stood  by  the 


64  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

cuddy's  table,  prayer-book  in  hand,  lifting  their  sea- 
weary  eyes  mournfully,  as  their  voices  rose  and  fell. 
What  voices!  Mellow  and  sombre  with  years,  the  deep 
bass  notes  seemed  to  come  from  beneath  the  deck  under 
their  feet  and  echo  through  their  beards.  The  skipper, 
divested  of  all  his  erstwhile  blasphemy,  would  hit  the 
cuddy's  table  with  his  knuckles  as  he  tried  to  keep  the 
tempo  and  the  language  the  same  (they  sang  in  various 
tongues).  And  one  night,  when  they  all  stood  singing 
with  their  huddled  backs  bent,  and  the  cuddy's  dim  lamp 
swung  to  and  fro  sending  glimmerings  over  their  wrin- 
kled faces,  I  seemed  to  have  suddenly  passed  into  a  by- 
gone age.  "  Houndsditch  "  and  the  two  other  modern 
sailors  were  mysteriously  blown,  like  cobweb  figures,  out 
of  the  saloon  by  a  puff  of  wind.  Only  those  eight  hairy- 
chested,  tattoed  figures  stood  there,  looking  like  misty 
things  with  hollow  eyes  and  eerie  grey  beards,  as  they 
sang  a  hymn  that  strangely  echoed  up  in  the  wailing  sails. 
The  tap,  tap  of  the  skipper's  knuckles  on  the  cuddy  table 
sounded  afar  off.  I  heard  only  the  long,  low  plunge  of 
the  "  Zangwahee's  "  bows  as  she  roamed  onward  and  the 
praying  hands  of  the  figure-head  swerved,  dived,  or 
softly  lifted  towards  the  tropic  skies,  while  I  stared  across 
the  little  swaying  table,  fidding  to  the  voices  of  those 
old  sailors,  as  we  sailed  the  dim,  starlit  seas  of  romance ! 
One  night,  while  we  were  playing  cards  in  the  dog- 
watch, something  struck  the  "  Zangwahee  "  like  a  tre- 
mendous hammer-blow.  We  were  carrying  a  lot  of  can- 
vas at  the  time.  The  "  Zangwahee "  heeled  over  and 
tumbled  us  in  a  heap  on  the  port  side  of  the  forecastle. 
The  boatswain's  dog,  old  Moses,  a  huge,  fluffy  fellow 
with  fine  brown  eyes  that  were  full  of  wisdom,  rushed 
out  on  deck  and  barked  at  the  stars.  Moses  was  always 
alert,  being  the  first  to  obe^  the  mate's  orders.  In  a 
moment  we  had  followed  Moses  on  deck  in  a  regular 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        65 

stampede.  The  mate  was  yelling  and  swearing  like  a 
madman. 

"  Where  the  blazing  h are  ye,  mon  ?  Take  in 

sail;  she'll  have  the  masts  ripped  out  of  her!"  (The 
mate  seldom  gave  direct  orders  to  those  old  sailormen 
who  had  run  the  Easter  down  and  doubled  Cape  Horn 
before  he  was  at  his  mother's  breast!) 

That  typhoon  had  struck  us  without  the  slightest  warn- 
ing. The  "  Zangwahee  "  was  already  diving,  as  I  clam- 
bered aloft  with  the  rest  of  the  crew.  The  seas,  calm 
as  a  sheet  of  glass  when  the  sun  went  down,  were  heav- 
ing angrily  as  the  wind  howled  across  the  night.  It 
was  a  marvellous  and  grand  sight,  for  there  wasn't  a 
cloud  in  the  sky.  The  stars  were  flickering  as  though 
the  typhoon's  wild  breath  reached  to  the  remote  outer 
spaces  of  infinity.  As  I  crawled  along  the  foot-ropes 
aloft,  I  looked  down  on  the  "  Zangwahee's "  swaying 
decks  and  distinctly  saw  old  Moses  barking  as  he  stared 
aloft,  his  hairy  nose  sniffing  the  stars.  I  looked  seaward 
and  saw  the  ramping  seas  rolling  away  to  the  dim  night 
skylines  like  travelling  mountains.  As  we  fisted  the  can- 
vas, the  old  skipper  roared  his  orders  from  the  poop; 
his  beard  blew  upward  and  went  over  his  shoulders  as 
the  wind  struck  him.  Of  course,  up  there  aloft  we  got 
the  full  force  of  the  blast.  I  clung  on  like  grim  death. 
We  had  to  keep  our  faces  to  leeward,  otherwise  it  were 
impossible  to  breathe  at  all,  as  the  wind  struck  us  like 
a  solid  mass.  I  cursed  that  typhoon.  I  hadn't  any  diplo- 
mas for  ability  in  going  aloft  on  dark  nights  while  ty- 
phoons blew.  Besides,  I  had  a  swollen  face  through 
toothache.  I  felt  as  though  I  was  being  tossed  about 
in  space,  lost  in  an  infinity  of  wind  and  darkness,  with 
only  the  stars  around  me. 

"  'Old  'ard !  yer  son  of  a  gun !  "  roared  an  old  salt, 
as  I  clutched  the  canvas  with  one  hand  and  grabbed 


66  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

his  beard  with  the  other  when  the  "  Zangwahee  "  nearly 
turned  turtle.  It  was  Olwyn  Saga,  and  for  a  moment 
I  had  thought  that  a  kind,  vast  white  beard  had  been 
thrust  out  of  space,  until  I  heard  the  mouth  give  a  muf- 
fled oath.  Only  one  who  has  been  aloft  on  a  sailing 
ship  in  really  bad  weather  knows  the  sensation  one  feels 
when  one  hangs  on  to  the  taut  ropes  of  a  stick  that 
seems  to  wobble  in  space,  a  stick  with  a  dozen  singing 
sailors  clinging  to  it,  using  frightful  oaths  as  they  ap- 
parently grab  the  stars  and  curse,  when  they  should  be 
thinking  of  the  supreme  possibility  of  suddenly  appear- 
ing before  their  Maker. 

"  Avast  there !  Shiver-me-timbers !  What  yer  doing, 

yer  young  B !  "  seemed  to  groan  a  sepulchral  bearded 

voice  from  out  the  stars! 

"  Nothing,"  I  wailed,  as  the  vessel,  pooping  a  tremen- 
dous sea,  seemed  to  dive  over  the  rim  of  the  world  into 
an  abyss.  I  had  instinctively  clutched  the  nearest  solid 
portion  of  the  visible  universe — the  seat  of  the  aged 
boatswain's  pants!  And  still  those  old  salts  sang  some 
strange  chanty  as  we  see-sawed  to  and  fro  in  space. 
The  moon  had  just  risen,  blood-red  on  the  horizon,  send- 
ing a  wild  glow  over  the  storm-tossed  waters.  And, 
as  I  looked  down  from  my  perch  in  space,  I  saw  the 
tremendous  seas  lifting  their  oily  backs,  like  mammoth 
monsters,  as  they  chased  and  charged  the  staggering 
ship.  The  skipper  was  still  on  the  poop,  using  his  hands 
as  a  siren,  as  he  yelled  to  the  winds  apparently.  Sud- 
denly a  tremendous  smudge  seemed  to  obliterate  the 
world,  a  smudge  that  incarnadined  the  ocean.  The 
"  Zangwahee  "  rose  like,  a  leaping  stag,  then  fell.  Even 
the  seasoned  salts  clinging  beside  me  leased  their  eternal 
chanty  at  that  awful  moment.  Crash !  the  "  Zangwahee  " 
had  apparently  collided  with  the  blood-red  moon!  I 
distinctly  saw  the  outstretched  praying  hands  of  the 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        67 

emblematical  figure-head  as  the  jibboom  dived  and  then 
stabbed  the  moon,  and  I  went  head-over-heels  and  fell 
softly  into  the  moon's  ghostly  fires !  So  did  it  all  seem 
to  me,  as  the  "  Zangwahee  "  nearly  foundered,  and  I, 
in  some  inexplicable  double-somersault,  had  a  swift 
glimpse  of  the  horizon,  as  she  fell  between  the  mountain- 
ous seas  and  I  was  jerked  into  old  Olwyn's  arms.  I  saw 
the  great  living  walls  of  foam-lashed  waters  flying  past 
us.  For  one  moment  the  foretop-gallant  yard  seemed 
exactly  level  with  the  foaming  pinnacles  of  the  moun- 
tains of  water  that  were  travelling  S.W.  But  for  Ol- 
wyn's providential  grip  on  me,  I  should  surely  have  fallen 
from  aloft,  that  I  know.  I  thanked  Heaven  when  every- 
thing was  snug  aloft  and  we  all  carefully  descended  the 
rattlings.  I  recall  that  I  had  barely  got  my  bare  feet 
on  the  bulwark  side,  prior  to  jumping  down  on  deck,  when 
another  sea  struck  us.  Again  it  seemed  that  we  had 
foundered  and  that  the  waters  were  thundering  over 
our  heads,  ramping  along,  shrieking  with  delight  as  we 
awaited  the  trump  of  doom.  When  the  "  Zangwahee  " 
once  more  righted  herself,  we  picked  the  skipper  up  as 
he  lay  by  the  galley  amidships.  He  had  been  washed 
off  the  poop.  By  some  miracle  the  man  at  the  wheel 
had  been  able  to  stick  to  his  post,  and  so  had  managed 
to  keep  the  "  Zangwahee "  from  falling  broadside  on 
into  the  tremendous  seas.  The  chief  mate  helped  to 
carry  the  skipper  aft  and  lay  him  in  his  bunk.  His 
leg  had  been  broken.  Suddenly  old  Hans  wailed  out 
in  a  horror-stricken  voice,  "  By  the  soul  of  Neptune,  if 
my  old  Moses  ain't  gone  overboard ! " 

The  huddled  crew  stood  by  the  cuddy's  alley-way, 
white-faced  as  they  stared  over  the  wild  waters.  The 
swollen  moon's  wild  red  light,  sweeping  the  mountain- 
ous seas,  made  a  glow  that  somehow  harmonized  with 
the  intense  inner  drama,  the  sorrow  of  that  moment. 


68  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

The  faithful  eyes  of  that  comrade,  who  had  stood  sen- 
tinel by  their  bunks,  were  out  there,  staring  blindly  in 
the  engulfing  cataclysms  of  those  terrible  night  waters. 

"  Shiver-me-timbers ! "  breathed  forth  those  ancient 
men,  as  it  came  again — a  faint,  deep,  baying  sound  out 
of  the  night,  "Wough!  Wough!" 

That  familiar  sound  touched  the  very  heart-strings 
of  those  ancient  sailormen.  "  God  'elp  us  all,  me  ship- 
mate's overboard !  "  said  Hans  to  the  chief  mate.  The 
"  Zangwahee "  rose  on  a  mountainous  sea;  then  once 
more  we  shipped  heavy  water.  The  torn  sails  of  the 
mizzen-yard  flapped,  booming  like  big  drums,  as  those 
old  seadogs  stood  there  looking  into  each  other's  eyes. 
As  for  old  Hans,  he  had  never  looked  so  appealingly 
or  spoken  in  so  abject  a  way  to  a  modern  officer  before. 

For  a  moment  the  clear  eyes  of  "  Scotty,"  for  so  they 
called  the  mate,  stared  on  Hans.  He  was  hesitating.  In 
that  supreme  moment  he  was  the  true  monarch  of  that 
buffeting  little  empire  of  wooden  planks  on  an  infinity 
of  water.  His  humble  subjects  awaited  the  order  that 
would  prove  if  his  heart  glittered  with  the  true  stuff 
that  would  stamp  him  as  a  man  in  their  eyes. 

Though  the  first  force  of  the  typhoon  had  blown  it- 
self out,  the  "  Zangwahee  "  was  pitching  terrifically,  and 
to  lower  a  boat  on  such  a  night  was  a  risky  thing. 

"  'E's  been  a  good  shipmate  to  us,  sor,"  said  another, 
as  Hans  watched  the  mate's  face  and  clutched  his  vast 
beard  that  had  blown  backward  right  over  his  shoulder. 

"  I  dinna  ken  what  to  do,  mon;  the  skapper  wouldnae 
think  on't,  I  know,"  said  the  mate,  as  he  lifted  his  oil- 
skin cap  and  scratched  his  red  head.  Then  he  looked 
into  Hans's  eyes  and  said  quietly,  "  All  right,  mon,  lower 
No.  3  starboard  boat." 

Possibly  the  mate  remembered  that  old  Moses  had 
always  obeyed  him  and  pulled  the  blanket  off  his  bunk 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        69 

true  to  time  when  the  midnight  hot  coffee  was  ready. 
Even  at  that  supreme  moment  a  faint,  deep,  anguished 
baying  called  to  him  out  of  the  night.  It  was  as  though 
Moses'  wondrous  instinct  knew  that  he  was  something 
of  an  outsider  in  a  world  of  two-legged  men,  and  so 
might  be  left  to  his  fate.  In  a  moment  the  old  hands 
had  scampered  to  No.  3  boat.  Their  hearts  were  out 
on  those  dark  thrashing  waters.  They  cared  not  one 
iota  about  the  risk  they  took  that  night.  The  great  lone- 
liness of  the  ocean  and  the  wild  poetry  of  the  storm 
only  strengthened  the  link  of  fellowship  between  them 
and  the  brown  eyes  that  stared  from  those  seas  at  the 
flying,  storm-tossed  "  Zangwahee."  I  had  more  than 
once  seen  men  lower  a  boat  to  save  a  man  overboard, 
and  I  swear  that  there  was  no  less  determination  and 
eagerness  displayed  by  those  old  salts  when  they  strug- 
gled with  the  tackle  and  risked  the  tremendous  seas  in 
lowering  that  boat. 

"  Give  a  hand  there,  youngster ! "  yelled  Olwyn,  as  I 
clung  to  the  davits  and  did  my  best  to  help  them.  Then, 
just  before  they  lowered  away,  I  jumped  into  the  boat 
to  give  Hans  his  clasp-knife  to  cut  some  tangled  tackle. 
Tt  was  at  that  moment  that  one  of  the  men,  who  was 
watching  for  the  critical  moment  to  lower  away,  saw  his 
chance,  and  loosened  the  tackle,  and  I  found  myself 
numbered  with  the  old  salts  in  that  boat.  For  a  mo- 
ment I  thought  we  had  been  swamped,  for,  as  the  boat 
touched  the  back  of  the  great  oily  sea  that  lifted  the 
"  Zangwahee  "  till  she  heeled  over  as  though  she  would 
turn  turtle,  another  sea  struck  her.  But  those  old  sea- 
poets  were  not  amateurs:  they  knew  how  to  make  the 
seas  scan  and  the  rolling  waters  rhyme  to  their  require- 
ments. But  still  for  a  long  time  we  all  had  to  use  our 
whole  strength  to  keep  the  boat's  head  to  the  seas.  It 
was  then  that  I  discovered,  for  the  first  time,  that,  though 


70  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

the  moon  was  well  up  on  the  horizon,  a  terrible  dark- 
ness existed  in  the  gulfs  of  the  waves.  Once,  when  our 
tiny  craft  rode  buoyantly  on  the  top  of  a  tremendous 
sea,  I  got  a  swift  kaleidoscopic  glimpse  of  the  "  Zang- 
wahee's  "  swaying  masts  and  rigging,  far-off,  with  the 
blood-red  moon  just  behind  her.  The  sight  of  those  il- 
limitable miles  of  tossing  waters,  our  lonely  ship  and 
lonelier  castaway  boat,  the  frantic,  hoarse  calls  of  the 
boat's  crew,  calling  "  Moses !  Moses !  "  was  something  un- 
forgettable, to  be  remembered  when  old  ambitions  and 
natural  catastrophes  are  long  forgotten. 

No  reply  came  to  that  frantic  call.  Not  a  soul  spoke 
as  we  all  listened,  down  there  in  the  silence  of  the  hol- 
lows, while  the  wind  shrieked  overhead  and  we  dropped 
into  the  sheer  silence,  as  vast  walls  of  living  waters 
rose  around  us.  So  strangely  silent  was  it  down  there 
in  that  gulf  of  the  ocean,  that  I  distinctly  heard  the  deep 
breathing  of  the  sailors  as  they  strained  at  the  oars.  At 
last  we  heard  it  come  again,  that  faint  deep  baying  of 
our  struggling  canine  shipmate.  There  was  no  fancy 
about  it;  we  heard  the  wild  note  of  appeal  and  despair 
in  each  faint,  deep  bark  that  answered  us  between  the 
intervals  of  silence  and  the  crash  of  the  seas. 

"  Damn  the  moon ! "  groaned  the  boatswain,  as  he 
stood  by  the  tiller,  stared  around  him,  and  almost  wept. 
We  all  knew  that,  had  the  moon  been  high  in  the  sky, 
we  should  have  had  a  thousand  better  chances  of  rescu- 
ing Moses. 

"  Yell,  boys !  Bully  boys,  yell !  "  roared  Hans.  And 
by  faith  they  did  yell.  Again  they  listened  and  stared 
out  over  the  wild  waters.  Back  it  came — a  faint  re- 
sponse, very  faint.  It  was  evident  that,  through  the 
heavy  seas  repeatedly  washing  over  our  shipmate's  head, 
he  was  fast  becoming  weak,  and  so  less  able  to  resist 
the  onrush  of  the  travelling  seas  that  would  bear  him 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        71 

from  us  for  ever.  "Shout  again,  boys!"  said  Hans. 
And  again  we  shouted.  We  well  knew  that  it  was  the 
only  chance.  For  Moses  would  instinctively  hear  from 
which  direction  our  voices  came  and  swim  towards  us. 
It  was  then,  whilst  we  all  strained  at  the  oars,  and  listened, 
that  we  heard  a  faint,  far-off  cry  of  anguish.  It  sounded 
more  like  the  terrified  cry  of  a  human  being  than  any- 
thing else  I  could  think  of.  Every  face  blanched,  I 
know,  as  we  heard  that  last  faint,  terrified  scream !  Old 
Hans,  who  stood  by  the  tiller,  his  eyes  looking  quite 
glassy,  nearly  fell  over  the  side  in  his  eagerness  to  see 
what  had  happened.  Indeed,  the  boat  was  nearly 
swamped,  for  we  left  off  rowing  when  we  realized  that 
something  else  had  come  out  of  the  vast  night  in  answer 
to  poor  old  Moses',  our  shipmate's,  despairing  appeal  to 
us.  We  knew  that  the  Pacific  was  infested  by  grey- 
nosed  sharks.  We  had  caught  three  monsters  on  a  hook 
with  fat  pork  only  a  day  or  two  before.  I  know  that  we 
all  shivered  at  that  moment.  We  well  knew  that  Moses 
would  give  a  scream  like  that  only  if  one  thing  happened. 

Next  night,  as  the  "Zangwahee"  once  again  stole 
steadily  on  her  course,  I  sat  in  the  fo'c'sle  with  those 
strange  old  sailormen.  There  they  sat,  huddled  on  their 
sea-chests,  smoking  their  pipes  and  chewing  melancholy- 
wise,  shuffling  the  cards  as  though  they  played  a  game 
that  was  part  of  their  destiny.  Even  their  silhouettes, 
moving  on  the  wooden  walls  as  the  swinging  oil-lamp 
sent  its  mingy  gleams  on  the  low  table,  looked  strangely 
mournful  as  the  big-bearded  mouths  drew  in  tobacco 
smoke  and  blew  it  forth  again  in  clouds.  The  boatswain, 
old  Hans,  had  torn  his  Bible  in  half  and  used  shocking 
atheistical  expressions.  I  heard  the  tramp,  tramp  of  the 
look-out  man  just  overhead,  and  the  wail  of  the  rigging 
and  heavy  foremast  canvas  as  the  "  Zangwahee  "  crept 


72  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

along  to  the  pushing  hands  of  the  night  winds.  Then 
old  Hans  lifted  his  bowed  head  and  looked  towards  the 
fo'c'sle  doorway,  where  old  Moses,  night  after  night, 
had  sat  on  his  mat,  on  watch,  his  hairy  nose  pointing 
to  the  stars  as  we  slept  in  our  bunks.  I  heard  the  old 
sailor  give  a  muffled  oath  as  he  blew  his  nose  in  his  dirty 
bit  of  sailcloth  handkerchief. 

Then  the  cook  closed  the  galley  door  for  the  night 
and,  stepping  softly  into  the  fo'c'sle,  plumped  down  a 
large  jar  of  the  best  Jamaica  rum  on  Hans'  sea-chest. 
It  was  a  present  from  the  bed-ridden  skipper;  and,  as 
the  old  salts  slowly  opened  their  mouths  and  in  one  mel- 
ancholy gulp  gave  a  sad  toast  to  the  memory  of  Moses' 
soul,  I  once  more  seemed  to  be  voyaging  across  the  seas 
of  some  far-off  age.  I  heard  the  melodies  of  the  winds 
wailing  aloft  in  the  grey  sails  that  swayed  along  under 
the  stars.  And,  somehow,  I  felt  the  touch  of  the  sea's 
old  sorrow  and  romance  blow  across  the  deck.  The 
moonlight  was  falling  in  an  eerie  way  through  the  spread 
canvas  and  wavering  ghostly-wise  on  the  deck  just  by 
the  fo'c'sle  doorway.  Again  I  felt  that  visionary  pres- 
ence, as  it  rustled  like  a  richly  melancholy-scented  wind 
along  the  deck,  a  something  that  my  senses  could  not 
place.  I  felt  it  creep  into  the  fo'c'sle,  sending  its  shift- 
ing fingers  tenderly  over  the  bowed  heads  of  those  old- 
time  sailormen,  who  mourned  the  loss  of  Moses,  the 
one  who  had  instinctively  loved  them  all,  through  know- 
ing the  hidden  virtue  of  their  hearts. 

When  we  arrived  off  Papeete,  we  seemed  to  have 
dropped  anchor  in  some  celestial  harbour  of  a  world 
beyond  the  stars.  Dotted  about  along  the  shore,  under 
the  waveless  coco-palms,  were  tiny,  yellow  wickerwork, 
bamboo  huts.  The  sun  was  setting.  It  was  a  sight  to 
please  the  most  unpoetical  being,  as  dusky  figures,  clad 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        73 

in  tappa-cloth  and  sashes  of  gorgeous  hues,  flitted  under 
the  banyan  groves.  The  far-away  background  of  that 
island  world  looked  like  some  vast  canvas  daub,  some 
tremendous  transcendent  silence  lit  up  by  a  liquid  set- 
ting sun.  The  mountain  ranges  of  Orehena,  visible  for 
miles,  resembled  some  old  chaos  of  unhewn  creation 
stuffed,  piled  up,  overgrown  with  forests,  and  encircled 
by  the  distant  blue  pigment  of  the  ocean  skyline.  But 
the  savage  children  of  Adam  and  Eve  were  there  right 
enough.  Fleets  of  outrigger  canoes  were  being  paddled 
out  by  the  primitive  peoples  who  had  sighted  the  "  Zang- 
wahee."  Those  canoes  were  the  Tahitians'  tiny  argo- 
sies, and  were  crammed  with  sweet-scented  merchandise, 
coco-nuts,  limes,  softly-tinted  shells,  corals,  and  luscious 
fruits.  Those  merchants  of  the  south  clambered  up  the 
vessel's  side,  rushed  about  the  decks  gabbling  in  a  mu- 
sical tongue  that  was  the  more  fascinating  through  being 
strange  to  our  ears.  Some  were  in  such  haste  that  they 
dived  from  their  canoes  into  the  sea,  and,  leaping  on 
deck,  looked  like  bronzed  mermen  as  they  shook  them- 
selves. The  water  glistened  from  their  lime-dyed  locks 
and  ran  down  their  handsome  figures.  "  Yarana ! "  was 
their  oft-reiterated  salutation.  It  was  hard  to  tell  which 
were  the  most  attractive,  the  pretty  maids  with  hibiscus 
blossoms  in  their  curly  hair,  or  the  handsome  terra-cotta- 
coloured  youths.  Whilst  the  hubbub  and  general  pande- 
monium of  those  pretty  merchants  were  in  full  swing, 
old  Hans,  Olwyn,  Steffan,  Olaf,  and  the  rest  of  the  old 
salts  walked  solemnly  out  of  the  forecastle,  hired  a 
twelve-seated  outrigger  from  the  natives,  and  were  im- 
mediately paddled  ashore. 

It  was  at  that  moment  that  I  sighted  for  the  first  time 
the  old  Tahitian  chief,  Pokara.  So  tall  was  he  that  he 
overtopped  the  gabbling  crowd  who  stood  on  the  "  Zang- 
wahee's  "  deck.  He  was  a  handsome,  wrinkled  old  fel- 


74  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

low,  and  his  looks  did  not  belie  him,  for  he  was  a  mighty 
heathen  poet  and  philosopher.  Though  old,  he  stood 
there  in  his  resplendent  youth  of  seventy  summers,  his 
eyes  ashine  with  the  light  of  some  witchery  and  fond 
beliefs  shared  by  no  one  else.  Pokara  was  one  of  a  type 
who  are  born  old  and  grow  up  youthful.  The  blue  days, 
and  the  death-blood  of  some  thousands  of  sunsets  down 
his  seventy  years  had  mellowed  his  faith  in  human  things, 
sent  the  dross  to  the  winds,  leaving  him  a  simple-minded, 
grand  old  man.  But,  withal,  directly  Pokara  sighted  my 
face,  he  made  a  bee-line  for  me.  His  fine  bronze  figure 
was  almost  hidden,  so  heavily  laden  was  he  with  his 
scented  merchandise. 

"  You  nicer  white  boy,  me  know ! — me  know !  "  said 
he,  as  he  dropped  his  bundles,  crash!  at  my  feet.  Then 
he  continued,  "  Wise  old  Pokara  say  to  'imself,  as  soon 
as  he  jumper  on  ship,  ah,  there  stand  'ansome  nicer 
Englis'  boy;  he  gotter  nicer  face  and  alle-same-ee  know 
that  kind  old  Pokara  am  here  to  sell  tings  bemarkable 
cheap." 

After  finishing  that  flattering  oration,  the  old  Tahitian 
drew  back  a  few  steps  so  that  he  might  the  better  renew 
his  scrutinizing  glance  over  my  youthful  physiognomy. 
A  second  look  at  my  face  seemed  to  make  the  old  chief 
fairly  chuckle  to  himself.  I  must  have  appeared  a  ten- 
derfoot !  He  behaved  as  though  he  would  have  me  know 
that  he  had,  by  a  still  more  careful  study  of  my  features, 
discovered  hitherto  undreamed-of  virtues  and  beauty  in 
myself,  such  virtues  that  had  quite  escaped  his  notice 
during  his  first  hasty  glance  of  admiration! 

Majestically  waving  away  the  other  scrambling  native 
pedlars  with  his  hand,  he  said,  "  Ha !  Ha !  Yorana !  " 
So  how  could  I  do  otherwise  than  purchase  a  few  things 
that  I  did  not  want  from  that  artful  old  man?  I  tell 
these  things  concerning  my  introduction  to  Pokara,  be- 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        75 

cause  he  was  a  typical  Tahitian  pedlar,  a  child  in  his 
duplicity,  and  a  fine  sample  of  his  race.  But  Pokara 
was  a  child  in  more  ways  than  one.  He  was  a  genuine 
survival  of  the  heathen  days,  and  his  mind  was  a  ver- 
itable repository  of  old  legends,  star-myths,  and  the 
storied  history  of  shadowland.  He  was  a  mighty  actor 
by  nature,  and,  withal,  was  level-headed  and  good- 
hearted.  Consequently  I  never  regretted  meeting  him 
that  evening  on  the  "  Zangwahee  "  decks,  or  at  any  time 
during  my  lengthy  stay  in  Papeete. 

I  recall  that,  after  I  left  the  "  Zangwahee,"  1  secured 
a  good  position  as  first  violinist  in  the  French  Presidency 
orchestra,  which  I  took  under  my  leadership  and  made 
into  a  capital  string  band.  Monsieur  le  President  al- 
lowed me  a  good  salary  from  the  official  exchequer,  and 
this  established  me  firmly  on  my  feet.  But,  alas  for 
the  foolishness  of  unsatisfied  youth!  I  tired  of  success 
and  went  a-wandering.  But  I  must  admit,  and  on  my 
own  behalf,  that  Pokara  was  at  the  bottom  of  that  busi- 
ness, for  I  suddenly  met  him  again  and  got  under  his 
pleasing  influence.  First,  I  must  say  that  I  was  in  a 
somewhat  melancholy  mood  that  day.  The  night  before, 
and  by  the  merest  chance  too,  I  had  seen  the  last  of 
the  "  Zangwahee's  "  crew.  I  had  just  emerged  from  the 
Presidency  midnight  ball,  my  violin  in  my  hand,  think- 
ing to  go  straight  home  to  my  lodgings  (an  old  hut  at 
the  end  of  the  township),  for,  as  I  have  said,  it  was  close 
on  midnight.  A  glorious  full  moon  was  shining  over  the 
palm-clad  mountains  as  I  hurried  on;  but  it  so  happened 
that,  after  all,  I  did  not  return  to  my  diggings  till  day- 
break. For,  as  I  stared  between  the  huddled  spaces  of 
the  thick  clumps  of  bamboos,  I  caught  sight  of  some 
eight  ragged-looking  human  beings  attired  in  ancient 
seamen's  clothes  and  antique  cheesecutter  caps.  They 
turned  out  to  be  none  other  than  the  "  Zangwahee's  " 


76  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

crew  on  their  last  night  ashore.  There  they  were,  old 
Hans  with  vast  beard  leading  the  way,  Steffan.  Olaf, 
Olwyn,  the  cook,  and  the  rest  walking  one  behind  the 
other  in  solemn  Indian  file  under  the  palms,  as  they  made 
for  the  nearest  cafe  that  sold  the  cheapest  and  best  rum 
and  cognac.  And  as  we  all  sat  together  in  the  shanty 
by  the  mountains,  the  hills  round  Papeete  rang  with  the 
echoes  of  the  wild  sea  chanties  of  an  age  that  I  had  never 
known,  while  they  yarned  and  sang  and  drank  solemnly 
at  my  expense.  Old  Joffre,  the  night  gendarme,  and  the 
sleepless  natives  came  and  stood  by  the  cafe's  doorway, 
and  stared  in  wonder  as  those  old  salts  smacked  me  on 
the  back  and  yelled  many  lamentations  over  their  fare- 
wells. For  I  had  told  them  that  I  had  decided  not  to 
return  to  the  "  Zangwahee "  any  more.  I  was  truly 
sorry  to  see  the  last  of  them.  They  had  admitted  me  to 
their  distinctive  social  circle,  had  initiated  me  into  the 
poetic  art  of  looking  backward  into  a  seemingly  remote 
past,  and,  above  all,  they  had  flavoured  my  soul  with  a 
dash  of  the  romance  and  true  poetry  of  the  sea  that  still 
wandered  on  the  oceans  in  the  shape  of  peculiar,  old, 
tattooed  men,  when  I  was  a  boy. 

But  to  resume  about  Pokara.  After  leaving  those 
old  safts,  I  happened  to  be  strolling  beneath  the  coco- 
palms  by  Motoa  beach,  a  lonely  spot  by  the  lagoons  out- 
side Papeete.  I  was  standing  by  the  wooden-columned 
portico  of  a  forest  shanty  listening  to  the  tuneless  chuck- 
ling of  the  blue-winged  parakeets,  when  I  was  startled 
by  seeing  a  handsome,  silent  figure  standing  beneath  a 
palm  tree.  It  was  alive,  for  the  full  dark  eyes  blinked 
as  they  stared  towards  the  mountains.  The  magnifi- 
cently curved  shoulders  were  squared  to  their  full  width, 
a  tappa-sash  of  gorgeous  colour  swathed  the  waist  and 
was  tied  bow-wise  at  the  left  hip,  the  tasselled  end  flung 
gracefully  over  the  right  shoulder.  The  figure  exactly 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        77 

resembled  a  bronze  statue.  The  left  knee  was  bent 
slightly  forward,  and  one  hand  was  on  the  chin  as  the 
eyes  stared  in  deep  meditation.  The  pose  was  perfect. 
Had  a  handsome  Greek  statue  suddenly  stepped  down 
from  its  pedestal  and  gripped  my  hand  in  friendship 
I  could  not  have  been  more  astonished.  That  figure  was 
none  other  than  old  Pokara,  shorn  of  his  cumbersome 
merchandise  and  clad  in  the  full  festival  costume  of 
ancestral  chief dom.  His  eagle-like  eyes  had  seen  me  com- 
ing down  the  orange  groves! 

The  old  chief  bent  forward  on  one  knee,  and,  seizing 
my  hand,  pressed  it  fervently  to  his  lips.  I  discovered 
that  the  little  wooden  building  by  the  palms  was  the 
residence  of  a  native  friend  of  his,  whom  he  had  just 
left  after  a  visit.  For  a  while  we  walked  together,  then 
at  my  suggestion  we  went  away  over  the  slopes  and 
retired  into  a  cafe  and  had  a  drink.  Lord  Pokara  and 
I  became  staunch  friends.  I  found  that  he  was  looked 
upon  by  all  the  natives,  and  by  the  white  settlers  too, 
as  a  character  worth  knowing.  His  majestic  bearing 
was  not  the  least  of  his  attractive  attributes.  Though 
his  face  was  wrinkled  into  a  deep,  expressive  map  by 
Time's  toiling  hand,  his  terra-cotta-hued  shoulders,  well 
greased  with  coco-nut  oil,  were  as  smooth  as  a  youth's. 
His  thick  head  of  hair  was  undoubtedly  grey;  but  Po- 
kara was  "up  to  snuff,"  and  had  checkmated  Time's 
tell-tale  pigment  by  dying  his  locks  to  a  golden  hue  with 
strong  coral  lime.  He  had  evidently  been  a  gay  cav- 
alier in  his  earlier  days,  for  I  observed  that  when  the 
picturesque  Tahitian  maids  passed  us  on  the  forest  track, 
all  chanting  their  himines  (legendary  melodies),  he  re- 
turned their  coquettish  glances  without  stint,  negligently 
tossing  his  shoulder-sash.  Nor  must  we  blame  old  Po? 
kara  for  his  love  of  sensuous  beauty,  for  he  was  very 
old  then  and  so  must  be  sleeping  soundly  to-night. 


78  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

"  You  stopper  at  Papeete  ?  "  said  he,  as  we  finished 
our  drink  and  came  out  of  the  cafe. 

"  Yes,"  I  replied;  and  this  answer  of  mine  seemed  to 
give  him  immense  satisfaction. 

I  saw  Pokara  almost  daily  after  that,  and  I  vow  that 
it  was  chiefly  his  wondrous  personality  and  its  effect  on 
my  youthful  mind  that  made  me  leave  the  Presidency 
orchestra  and  take  to  troubadouring  with  the  old  Tahi- 
tian  chief. 

"  You  comer  with  me  and  play  violin  in  villages  a 
longer  way  off,  arid  we  make  lots  of  money,"  said  he 
one  day,  after  I  had  been  down  at  his  primitive  home- 
stead. Then  he  began  to  tell  me  Arabian  Nights  tales 
concerning  the  riches  of  the  native  villages  and  the  won- 
ders to  be  seen  in  the  pagan  citadels  over  the  moun- 
tains. And  so  it  happened  that  we  went  off  together. 
It  was  a  glorious  day  when  I  found  myself  tramping 
with  my  violin  strung  beside  me,  crossing  the  palm-clad 
slopes  of  Mount  Orehena,  en  route  for  the  pagan  vil- 
lages where  dwelt  great  high-caste  chiefs  and  chiefesses. 

It  seemed  like  some  wild  dream  of  a  mediaeval  age 
when  I  first  stood  in  a  pagan  township  playing  my  violin 
to  dark-eyed,  dusky  houris.  They  stood  with  finger  to 
their  hushed  lips  as  I  played  by  their  bamboo  huts  and 
Pokara  sang  a  weird  himine.  I  might  say  here  that 
Pokara  had  made  me  memorize  several  quaint  heathen 
tunes  before  we  started  off  on  that  expedition,  as  well 
as  telling  me  monstrous  tales  about  princes  and  chiefs 
who  would  cast  pearls  at  my  feet  as  prolifically  as  one 
throws  rice  on  a  happy  marriage  morn.  But,  alas!  it 
was  not  all  as  rosy  as  my  Tahitian  comrade  had  painted 
it.  And  I  thanked  Heaven  that  the  expenses  attached 
to  the  role  of  troubadouring  were  not  over-abundant  in 
those  glorious  climes.  Beyond  languishing  glances  from 
the  star-eyed,  golden-skinned  Tahitian  belles,  I  did  not 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        79 

get  much  out  of  the  adventure;  but  I  must  admit  that 
the  sight  of  Pokara,  with  his  tasselled  sash  flung  grace- 
fully over  his  tawny  shoulder  and  a  fascinating  poetic 
grin  on  his  wrinkled  mouth,  was  something  worth  sweat- 
ing across  those  tropic  miles  for  in  far-off  Tahiti.  I  know 
that  Pokara  seemed  to  look  upon  that  trip  as  the  time 
of  his  life,  as  he  passed  round  amongst  our  dusky  au- 
diences with  his  coco-nut-shell  collecting-box.  Often  the 
old  chiefs  would  persuade  us  to  stay  the  night  in  the 
village,  so  that  we  might  serenade  them  at  their  sacred 
festival  rites  and  wedding  ceremonies.  And  for  such 
services  we  would  receive  the  highest  honours  and  val- 
uable curios — tappa-cloth,  pearl  shells,  and  many  things 
that  would  make  a  heavy  load.  Pokara  managed  to  get 
hold  of  two  large  sacks,  and,  rilling  them  with  our  pres- 
ents, had  the  cheek  to  ask  me  to  carry  one.  But  this 
I  positively  refused  to  do,  whereupon  Pokara  hid  his 
booty  in  the  jungle  till  such  time  as  he  could  come  back 
and  fetch  it. 

I  think  we  had  been  on  this  South  Sea  buskin  march 
for  about  three  weeks  when  we  arrived  at  a  pagan  cita- 
del where  we  had  quite  an  exciting  adventure, — though, 
in  good  truth,  we  had  many  adventures  that  may  not  be 
recorded  here.  One  night,  after  we  had  been  tramping 
miles  through  breadfruit  forests  and  by  the  rugged  feet 
of  lines  of  mountains,  we  came  to  a  pagan  citadel  called 
Ta-e-mao.  I  shall  never  forget  the  surprise  of  the  dusky 
inhabitants  as  we  emerged  from  beneath  the  palms  and 
I  began  to  play  an  old  Tahitian  madrigal,  while  Pokara 
wailed  out  words  that  I  did  not  understand.  I  was  at- 
tired in  duck  pants  and  a  brass-bound  midshipman's  reefer 
jacket,  and  had  on  my  head  a  large,  dilapidated  helmet 
hat.  As  for  Pokara,  though  he  was  travel-stained  and 
perspiration  had  washed  much  of  the  gold  pigment  from 
his  ambrosial  locks,  he  was  a  sight  fitted  to  awaken  ad- 


80  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

miration  in  all  hearts.  After  the  inhabitants  had  rushed 
from  their  huts  and  got  over  the  first  surprise  of  our 
sudden  appearance,  they  were  overcome  with  joy  as  I 
played  on  and  Pokara  sang. 

I  don't  exactly  know  what  happened  that  night  in 
Ta-e-mao,  though  I  do  know  that  the  high  chiefs  and 
chief  esses  treated  us  both  with  that  punctilious  etiquette 
always  accorded  troubadours  in  those  South  Sea 
mediaeval  ages.  It  appeared  that  we  had  arrived  on  the 
occasion  of  a  great  festival  that  was  being  given  in 
honour  of  the  visit  of  an  aged  king  from  one  of  the 
islands  to  the  south.  He  was  a  remarkable-looking 
old  fellow.  He  had  a  face  like  a  gnarled  tree-trunk 
carved  to  resemble  a  man.  His  teeth  were  white  as 
snow.  He  wore  side-whiskers  and  had  a  large  seashell 
tied  on  to  them.  He  was  so  stout  that,  when  he  went 
to  drink  out  of  the  festival  calabash,  the  royal  attendants 
laid  the  receptacle  down  on  the  top  of  his  corporation, 
then  bowed  and  withdrew.  He  had  brought  with  him 
his  two  daughters,  or  granddaughters,  I  forget  which. 
They  were  comely-looking  girls.  One  was  even  beautiful, 
according  to  our  European  ideas  of  that  oft-misused 
word.  Her  thick,  curly  hair  was  artistically  adorned 
with  orange  blossoms,  and  her  attire  consisted  of  a 
most  attractively  woven  raiment  of  tappa-cloth  that 
fell  to  her  knees.  She  had  fine  dark  eyes,  luminous  with 
a  golden  light,  and  they  might  well  have  fired  the 
imagination  of  a  less  bold  and  outrageous  youth  than 
myself.  Though  I  was  not  aware  of  it,  Pokara  well 
knew  that  she  was  taboo-bride,  which  means  that  she 
had  just  arrived  of  age,  and,  being  a  princess  of  a  certain 
grand  old  dynasty,  was  entitled  to  propose  to,  and 
accept,  the  first  high  chief  of  royal  blood,  or  whoever 
might  please  her  eyes.  In  short,  my  confession  is 
this:  I  made  gallant  advances  to  her,  and  she  received 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        81 

them  with  an  abandonment  that  was  boundlessly  re- 
freshing and  romantic,  not  only  to  myself  but  to  the 
royal  assemblage  of  high  chiefs  and  the  old  king  also. 
One  thing  will  I  say  in  palliation  of  all  that  I  may  have 
done,  and  that  is,  that  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea 
that  the  delicious  cooling  drink  proffered  to  Pokara 
and  myself  with  immense  liberality  was  an  intoxicating 
beverage.  And  I  am  sure  that  that  drink  had  a  good 
deal  to  do  with  the  heathenish  doings  of  Pokara  and 
myself  and  the  final  episode  that  night  in  Ta-e-mao. 
Her  name  was  Soovalao,  and  it  is  a  positive  fact  that 
Soovalao  stood  before  me,  lifted  one  dusky  arm,  and 
sang  a  heathen  bridal  himine  to  my  eyes !  The  applause 
at  this  choice  of  hers  was  terrific!  It  is  even  possible 
that  I,  in  some  subconscious  way,  responded  to  the 
princess's  love-tokens  and  modest  caresses.  For  I 
distinctly  recall  that  I  heard  the  tribal  drums  crash 
forth  a  mighty  fortissimo  con  passione  as  I  gallantly 
accepted  the  beautifully-carved  tortoise-shell  comb 
from  her  hair,  kissed  her  hand,  and  repeated  some  old 
Tahitian  rite!  But  alas!  in  delicate  compassion  for 
those  who  would  resent  this  sad  confession,  I  will  draw 
a  veil  of  forgetfulness  over  the  final  heathen  dance,  when 
I  played  the  fiddle  and  Pokara  sang,  and  it  seemed 
that  a  thousand  dusky  beauties  of  a  phantom  forest 
seraglio  somersaulted  beneath  the  moonlit  palms! 

At  daybreak  I  awoke.     Pokara  was  stirring  beside 
me. 

"  Hush,  O  Papalagi,  'tis  well  that  we  fly  at  once." 
"  Fly  where  ?  "  I  said,  as  I  rubbed  my  eyes  and  stared. 
Then  the  old  chief  looked  at  me,  and  said  : 
"  O  Papalagi,  you  did  accept  the  princess's  comb,  great 
gift  from  her  hair,  and  the  whole  tribe  have  accepted 
you  as  great  chief !  " 
"Have  they?"  said  I. 


82  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

Then,  as  the  dawn's  first  bird  commenced  to  sing  in 
the  banyans  and  the  village  still  slept  on,  Pokara  and  I 
crept  forth  from  our  little  pagan  hut,  and  dived  noise- 
lessly into  the  forest! 

"What  happened?  What  did  you  do,  O  Pokara?" 
said  I,  as  we  camped  by  a  lagoon  that  day,  ten  miles 
from  that  pagan  citadel. 

"  You  no  wanter  marry  princess  this  day,  and  go 
way  to  'nother  island  to  the  south  of  the  setting  sun, 
and  Pokara  see  you  no  more?"  said  Pokara. 

"  Um !  so  that's  how  the  wind  blows,"  I  muttered  to 
myself. 

It  was  after  the  aforesaid  experiences  that  we  decided 
to  return  to  Papeete,  and  at  once  set  out  on  our  long 
return  journey.  Pokara  would  swear  terrifically,  I 
know,  in  his  own  tongue,  as  he  dropped  his  huge  sack  of 
tribal  presents  and  sat  on  a  decayed  tree  trunk,  irri- 
tated, as  I  climbed  the  trees  in  search  of  birds'  nests. 
Somehow  the  old  schoolboy's  instinct  of  bird-nesting 
would  come  back  to  me.  It  would  have  made  any 
collector's  eyes  shine  to  see  the  mighty  nests  that 
I  found,  and  the  richly-hued  splashed  cockatoos', 
parakeets',  and  strange  tropic  birds'  eggs  that  I  dis- 
covered. Most  of  them  were  too  far  advanced  in  fer- 
tilization to  "blow  out";  but,  still,  I  secured  a  few  fine 
specimens  that  had  hard  shells  and  would  not  easily 
break. 

One  night,  just  as  we  had  made  up  our  beds  of  moss 
and  fern  grass  by  a  belt  of  mangroves,  and  Pokara  was 
telling  me  his  old  legendary  stories,  we  were  both 
startled  by  seeing  a  strange  apparition  step  out  of  the 
forest.  It  was  a  fine  moonlight  night.  Pokara  leapt 
to  his  feet  as  I  bravely  leapt  behind  him!  At  first  I 
thought  it  was  a  heathen  god.  But  I  discovered  that 
the  peculiar  being  was  real  enough,  for  It  wore  ragged 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        83 

side-whiskers,  large  loose  pantaloons  held  up  by  a  belt, 
and  a  tremendous  wide-brimmed  hat  that  had  nothing 
spiritual-looking  about  it.  It  was  a  derelict  sailor. 

"What  oh,  shipmate!" 

"  What  oh !  "  I  responded,  as  the  stranger  gave  a  loud 
guffaw  and  roared  out: 

"  Damn  me  blasted  whiskers,  where  ther  'ell  you 
sprung  from  ? — a  wirelin  too !  "  he  added,  as  he  stared 
down  at  my  fiddle. 

On  hearing  all  that  we  chose  to  tell  him,  he  winked, 
and  told  us:  that  he  had  knocked  the  skipper  of  his  ship 
down,  and  had  made  a  bolt  from  Papeete  to  save  being 
placed  in  irons. 

He  did  keep  us  alive  that  night,  I  must  admit.  He 
had  a  large  flask  of  whisky  in  his  pantaloons  and  plied 
himself  from  it  liberally.  And  the  way  he  sat  by  us 
that  night  and  sang  awful  songs  was  something  extra- 
ordinary and  thrilling.  He  seemed  to  be  unable  to  sleep, 
and  every  time  I  dozed  off  he  caught  me  a  whack  on  the 
back  and  said: 

"  Wake  up,  yer  young  b- !  " 

At  daybreak  he  informed  us  that  he  must  make 
tracks,  as  he  wanted  to  slip  down  to  the  coast  and  stow 
away  on  one  of  the  trading  schooners  that  traded 
between  the  Marquesas  group  and  Tahiti.  I  think 
that  we  were  about  three  days'  slow  journey  from 
Papeete  when  he  left  us.  The  last  I  saw  of  him  was 
when  his  big  boots  crashed  though  the  forest  scrub, 
making  the  parrots  rise  and  scream  above  the  giant 
breadfruit  trees,  as  his  herculean  figure  faded  away  into 
the  shadows  of  the  wooded  depths.  Pokara  seemed 
mighty  glad  to  see  him  go!  I  was  sorry.  I  recall 
that  we  camped  by  a  large  lagoon  near  the  shore  that 
night  It  was  a  glorious  starlit  sky,  and  Pokara,  who 
never  wearied  of  telling  me  his  wondrous  stories  and 


84  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

old  legends  as  we  camped  by  those  high  sea  ways,  sat 
there  by  the  mountains  and  told  me  a  very  fascinating 
legend.  I  saw  his  eyes  brighten  as  the  tale  he  told  re- 
vived the  legendary  atmosphere  of  his  youth. 

"  You  see  stars — tips  of  light  up  there  in  sky?"  said 
he,  as  I  lit  my  pipe  and  prepared  to  listen. 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  as  I  looked  up  at  the  heavens  and 
saw,  millions  of  miles  beyond  his  dark,  pointing  finger, 
a  small  constellation  of  stars,  six  in  all — two  very  bright 
ones,  and  the  remainder  stars  of  about  the  fourth  mag- 
nitude. 

"  You  liker  know,  O  Papalagi,  who  those  stars  are, 
why  they  get  in  sky  and  stop  up  there  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  would !  "  I  responded. 

Then  the  old  pagan  astronomer  sighed  deeply,  and 
proceeded : 

"  Tousands  and  tousands  of  moons  ago,  big  canoe 
come  from  Isles  that  am  in  the  setting  sun.  As  big 
canoe  get  near  Papeete,  the  win'  blew  and  blew.  Then 
the  moani  (sea)  jump  and  jump  and  push  canoe  on  the 
reefs;  bottom  of  canoe  fall  out  and  sailors  all  go  bottom 
of  sea!  One  great  chief  did  try  to  keep  life  that  be- 
longer  him,  and  so  he  not  sink  for  a  longer  time;  but 
then  he  too  go  bottom.  But,  though  he  go  to  bottom 
of  ocean,  he  no  die  dead.  It  was  then  that  he  look 
round  bottom  of  sea  and  feel  much  worried;  big  place, 
all  'lone.  Then  he  call  out :  '  Me  great  chief  Ora  Tua 
am  here  at  bottom  of  sea — where  am  gods? ' 

"  It  so  did  happen  that  goddess  Tarioa,  who  sat  at 
her  cave  door  weaving  the  sunsets,  seaweed,  and  the 
hairs  of  dead  women  to  make  mats  for  gods'  feet,  look 
suddenly  round  cave  door's  corner  and  see  great  chief 
Ora  Tua  lying  on  floor  of  ocean.  Her  eyes  did  shine, 
for  he,  too,  look  'andsome  chief  as  he  stood  up  all 
tangled  in  the  sunset.  For  you  must  know  that  the 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI       85 

sun  was  sinking  just  same  time  as  canoe  bottom  was 
knock  out  on  reefs. 

"  When  goddess  Tarioa  saw  Ora  Tua,  she  put  her 
hand  to  eyes  and  stare  longer  while  to  see  so  nice  chief, 
chief  who  had  belonger  world  'way  up  'bove  sea  floor. 
She  slowly  creep  out  of  cave,  and  while  Ora  Tua  was 
looker  'nother  way,  she  catch  hold  of  his  hair  and  pull 
'im  outer  of  the  sunset.  As  he  stand  before  her,  his 
face  and  form  all  shining  with  golden  fire  and  sunlight 
that  once  shine  over  this  world,  she  say,  '  Ora  Tua, 
you  are  'andsome  chief ! ' 

"  Then  Ora  Tua  look  at  goddess  Tarioa,  and  answer 
nice  things  'bout  the  goddess's  face,  and  he  say,  '  Oh, 
who  are  you,  so  beautiful  under  the  sea?  '  Then  no  time 
am  waste  between  them,  they  faller  in  love!  Big  day 
gods  and  Atua  (Thunder-god),  the  god  who  open  door 
to  let  out  kind  sun  in  morning  and  tattoo  sky  by  night, 
peep  through  crack  in  that  big  cave  and  say,  '  Oh,  dear ! 
Dear  me !  goddess  Tarioa  am  gone  now  and  kiss  that  Ora 
Tua,  a  dead  chief  who  am  not  tapu,  but  am  mortal  who 
once  live  up  in  world  by  the  sea.' 

"  It  was  then  that  big  gods  all  rush  out  of  caves  and 
run  after  goddess  Tarioa  and  Ora  Tua,  so  that  they  may 
not  kiss  again.  But  so  big  were  their  shoulders,  all 
moving  alonger  underneath  ocean  water,  that  it  make 
big  waves  tumble  about  up  on  sea  beneath  the  stars; 
and  so  'nother  canoe  that  was  filled  with  nicer  Tahi- 
tian  maidens  knock  on  reefs  and  go  to  bottom  of  sea 
too! 

"  The  gods  were  so  pleased  that  the  dead  Tahitian 
girls  so  pretty  all  stand  before  them,  that  they  forget 
all  about  wicked  goddess  Tarioa  and  chief  Ora  Tua." 

"What  happened  then,  Pokara?"  said  I,  as  the  chief 
licked  his  lips  and  looked  up  towards  the  starlit  skies  in 
deep  meditation.  And  he  continued  in  this  wise: 


86  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

"  Well,  longer  time  after  Ora  Tua  kiss  goddess,  she 
had  two  children  same  time!  " 

"Twins?"  said  I,  as  I  laughed,  and  Pokara  vouch- 
safed a  solemn  smile. 

"  The  gods  of  shadowland  were  terrible  angry :  they 
stamp  feet  till  world  shake.  It  was  terrible  thing  for 
goddess  Tarioa  to  give  forth  in  birth  two  mortal  chil- 
dren! 

"  Goddess  Tarioa  know  this  much,  so  she  cry  and 
cry  out :  '  O  great  gods,  giver  unto  me  nice  sweet  milk 
for  my  two  strikas  (children) ! '  for  her  grief  was 
mucher,  since  goddess  do  have  no  bosoms. 

"  The  gods  did  all  look  through  the  big  ocean  water 
like  great  faces  looking  through  white  man's  image 
glass;  they  looker  terrible  angry  at  Tarioa  and  say: 
'  Your  babies  wanter  milk  ? — why  am  this  ? ' 

"  And  Tarioa  did  hang  her  head  to  her  bosomless 
bosom,  where  the  little  ones  did  move  their  mouths  and 
fingers  in  much  sorrow.  For  a  moment  the  gods  did  look 
in  wonder  at  the  children,  then  they  said :  '  O  Tarioa, 
since  thy  children  are  mortal,  they  must  die ! ' 

"  Then  the  god  who  tattoos  the  skies  by  night  look 
out  of  the  great  Ink  of  Night,  and  say :  '  Is  it  well,  O 
great  Atua,  to  kill  these  children?  Are  they  not  of  those 
who  gaze  on  the  great  blue  ways  as  my  finger,  toiling 
brightly,  tattoos  the  stars  ?  ' 

"  And  so  did  it  happen  that  one  god  did  pray  for 
Tarioa  and  her  children.  So  they  no  kill  Tarioa,  but 
they  run  after  her  and  drive  her  to  the  far  north-west 
of  big  ocean-floor  till  she  come  to  the  shores !  And  then 
she  did  run  up  into  the  world  of  sunlight,  and  standing 
on  the  shore  did  say :  *  Oh,  how  nicer  a  world ! ' 

"  As  she  look  up  at  nice  trees  all  blowing  and  singing 
in  win'  and  saw  above  the  trees  the  kind  blue  sky,  she 
look  so  beautiful  that  kamoka-bird  (evening-nightingale) 


fly  out  of  big  forest  by  the  sea  and  sit  on  her  head. 
It  sang  and  flutter  its  wings  as  its  feet  get  much  entangle 
in  goddess's  hair.  Then  it  hopped  down  on  her  shoulder, 
and  try  mucher  to  poke  stalos  (fireflies)  in  babies' 
mouths  as  they  cry  and  cry  for  milk. 

"  But  still  they  cry  and  cry.  Fireflies  no  good !  Then 
Tarioa  very  sad,  so  she  call  out.  *  O  god  of  Rain,  Ora, 
Tane,  Maker-of-flowers  and  birds  and  nicer  things,  I 
have  sin  in  thy  sight,  but  now  I  do  offer  prayer.  I  will, 
O  gods,  be  as  sacrifice  to  thy  altars,  and  my  children  shall 
worship  thee  if  they  do  live/ 

"  The  great  god  Tane,  hearing  her  prayer,  did  walk 
out  of  forest.  Seeing  so  beautiful  a  goddess  before  his 
eyes,  he  say:  *  You  wanter  food,  milk  for  babies?' 
Then  he  put  forth  his  big  hand  and  held  babies  up  on 
tip  of  one  finger — and  looker  much  pleased!  He  then 
say:  'Your  children,  O  goddess  of  sin,  may  grow  up 
beautiful  through  having  so  nicer  a  goddess  mother; 
they  might  have  light  of  the  great  gods,  my  vassals,  in 
their  hearts.' 

"  Then  as  the  babies  cry,  god  Tane  turn  in  great 
hurry  to  a  palm  tree  just  by.  He  touch  the  top,  that 
was  'gainst  sky,  with  his  finger,  and  lo!  out  sprang  a 
bunch  of  ripe  coco-nuts!  Then  he  touch  shell  and  so 
make  soft  holes.  And  then  he  place  babies'  mouths  to 
the  holes  so  that  they  could  drink  of  the  nicer  sweet  milk. 
He  then  turn  to  goddess  Tarioa,  and  touch  her  breast, 
and  her  bosoms  did  grow — not  two  bosoms,  but  four. 
So  did  she,  being  a  great  goddess  and  loved  by  Tane, 
have  four  nipples. 

"  So  did  goddess  Tarioa  become  mortal.  Her  children 
grew  up  and  did  have  more  children  who  do  ever  have  a 
far-away  look  in  their  eyes  when  they  stare  towards 
the  setting  sun.  For  you  must  know  that  they  are  tapu 
children,  and  live  on  the  Isles  that  are  far  to  the  north- 


88  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

west.  And  long,  long  ago,  goddess  Tarioa  did  go  'way 
to  shadowland  that  is  far  up  in  the  sky.  And  it  is  up 
in  the  sky  that  her  eyes  did  stop  and  still  stop  as  she  ever 
watches  by  night  over  her  children." 

Saying  the  foregoing,  Pokara  pointed  up  to  the  con- 
stellation of  six  stars  to  the  far  north-west,  and  said: 

"  Papalagi,  there  she  is ! — those  two  bright  stars  are 
her  eyes  and  the  four  pale  little  stars  am  her  nipples. 

"  So  you  see,  O  Papalagi,  why  all  the  children  of  the 
islands  'way  to  north-west  are  tapu  (sacred),  for  they 
are  the  children  of  the  children  who  did  once  drink 
tapu-milk  from  the  bosom  of  the  stars." 

As  Pokara  finished,  he  looked  intently  up  at  the 
heavens.  And  as  I  too  looked  up  and  saw  the  two  bright 
stars,  and  the  accompanying  smaller  stars  twinkling  out 
there,  far-off  in  the  clear  night  sky,  I  understood  how 
wonderful  the  universe  must  have  appeared  to  the  old 
heathens  of  many  ages  ago.  I  could  not  laugh  over 
Pokara's  story,  as  we  sat  there  by  the  forest  lagoons. 
I  must  confess  that  I  too  felt  some  weird  fascination 
for  his  heathen  world.  And,  as  the  old  chief  laid  his 
weary  head  down  on  the  forest  floor  and  the  winds  sang 
mournfully  in  the  mangroves,  I  looked  up  towards  the 
sky  and  strangely  fancied  that  I  saw  the  beautiful  god- 
dess Tarioa  watching  from  the  night-heavens  amongst 
the  stars,  watching  over  her  lost  children.  Then  I  laid 
my  head  down  on  my  pillow  of  gathered  moss  and  tried 
to  sleep.  As  I  watched  the  moon  slowly  climbing  the 
blue  vault  of  space  over  the  forest  height,  Pokara's  deep 
bass  snores  broke  gently  through  my  meditations.  After 
a  while  I  gazed  on  the  sleeping  chief's  face  and  fancied 
he  looked  like  some  tattooed  mummy  who  had  lain  there 
in  its  scented  swathings  beside  me  for  possibly  a  thou- 
sand years.  It  was  at  that  precise  moment  that  my  eyes 
spied  a  bright  spot  that  shone  like  a  vast  jewel  under 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        89 

the  distant  ivory  nut  palms.  It  was  a  small  forest  la- 
goon that  I  had  not  observed  before.  I  was  not  as  sur- 
prised as  one  might  suppose,  when  the  water  stirred  and 
a  shock-head  of  glistening  hair  protruded  and  two  spar- 
kling eyes  peered  at  me.  I  could  hardly  believe  my  own 
eyes  as  the  head  rose  higher  and  a  beautiful  form  slowly 
emerged  from  the  silent  depths.  She  was  a  goddess-like 
creation  of  wondrous  beauty;  the  glistening  waters  ran 
from  her  tresses  down  below  her  thighs  as  she  gazed 
upon  me.  She  was  not  more  than  twelve  yards  away. 

"  The  wonders  of  the  South  Seas  have  no  end," 
thought  I,  as  with  finger  to  her  lips  she  beckoned  to  me 
and  came  gliding  towards  me  on  tiptoe.  I  instinctively 
understood  her  meaning.  In  a  moment  I  obeyed.  Jump- 
ing to  my  feet,  I  clutched  my  violin  and  followed  her.  I 
heard  the  eerie  rustle  of  her  shadowy  raiment,  as  her 
feet,  pattering  like  rain  on  palm  leaves,  sped  softly 
beside  me.  Then  we  came  to  the  sea.  It  was  a  wild, 
solitary  spot.  Only  the  tiny  whirl  of  the  incoming  waves 
broke  the  moonlit  stillness  that  dwelt  at  the  feet  of  the 
mountains  which  rose  like  mighty  sentinels  to  the  north- 
west. Taking  me  by  the  hand,  she  led  me  out  to  the  edge 
of  the  promontory.  As  I  stood  there  staring  on  the 
strange  greenish  hue  of  the  sea-line,  I  realized  that  I 
was  standing  on  the  most  solitary  point  of  the  earth. 
Then,  as  gracefully  as  possible,  I  did  exactly  as  she 
bade  me — sat  down  in  the  large  bowl  of  moonlight  she 
had  mysteriously  placed  there.  And,  so  seated,  I  lifted 
my  violin  to  my  chin  and  played  a  weird  melody,  such 
a  melody  as  a  troubadour  might  well  play  to  a  beauti- 
ful enchantress.  It  was  all  real  enough,  no  dream  at  all. 
I  even  touched  myself.  "No  mistaking  me!"  I 
mumbled.  Then  I  gazed  on  the  sky,  and  observed  that 
the  stars  swam  like  goldfish  across  the  midnight  blue. 
I  knew  that  Pokara  still  lay  fast  asleep  in  the  forest 


90  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

shadows,  little  dreaming  of  the  strange  visitant  who  had 
lured  me  from  his  side.  In  some  strange  way  I  realized 
how  envious  he  would  have  been,  could  he  have  seen 
me  sitting  there  in  that  bowl  of  moonlight  playing  my 
violin.  He,  I  knew,  always  would  think  the  magic  of 
things  was  wholly  on  his  side  and  not  on  mine;  and  there 
I  was,  being  strangely  favoured  by  the  gods  of  the 
present  reality,  whereas  Pokara  had  to  dive  far  back  into 
a  heathen  past  ere  he  realized  such  wonders  as  I  realized 
that  very  night.  And  still  I  played  on,  as  the  maid 
danced  in  a  way  that  surely  none  had  ever  seen  before. 
It  did  not  seem  at  all  strange  when  she  leaned  forward 
and  sang  into  my  ears  the  melodious  old  English  ballad 
"The  Mistletoe  Bough";  and  while  I  played  a  tender 
staccato  on  my  violin  the  waves  wailed  a  wistful  obligato 
con  anima  espressione^  as  they  rippled  on  the  moonlit 
coral  reefs. 

Suddenly  the  maid,  who  had  been  dancing  with  her 
hands  raised,  stayed  the  silent  trippings  of  her  feet  and 
fell  on  one  knee  before  me.  In  my  finest  Hans  Andersen 
style,  I  took  her  hand  and  listened  to  her  pleading.  My 
heart  beat  rapidly,  I  know,  as  she  said  in  accents  soft 
and  low: 

"  O  pale-faced  troubadour  from  the  western  seas, 
come !  Follow  me !  " 

"  Fancy  this  being  the  end  of  my  wanderings  in  the 
southern  seas ! "  I  muttered  deep  within  my  soul,  as 
she  knelt  there  on  the  promontory's  edge  and  gazed 
into  my  eyes  in  a  final  mute  appeal.  Then  I  rose  to  my 
feet.  I  well  knew  that  many  men  had  risked  their  all 
for  the  sake  of  the  light  of  witchery  in  a  woman's  eyes. 
Perhaps  she  observed  my  hesitation,  for,  as  she  gazed 
on  me,  I  saw  her  eyes  blink,  and,  lo !  I  got  one  splendid 
glimpse  of  the  stars  that  shone  in  their  liquid  depths. 
Nor  could  I  help  myself,  as,  standing  there,  I  touched 


TROUBADOURING  IN  TAHITI        91 

her  lips  with  my  own  thrice  before  I  took  the  final 
plunge.  I  instinctively  placed  my  violin  under  my  coat 
so  that  it  would  not  get  wet.  Once  more  I  looked  up 
at  the  sky.  Then  we  both  dived  noiselessly  into  the 
ocean  and  faded  away  into  the  depths  of  a  great  silence. 
I  opened  my  eyes.  Pokara  was  still  beside  me,  fast 
asleep.  Only  the  passionate  song  of  the  O  Le  Mao, 
high  up  in  the  breadfruits  just  overhead,  disturbed  the 
silence  of  the  forest  as  I  stared  up  at  the  stars.  Then 
in  some  vague  longing  I  turned  over  and  tried  to  sleep, 
so  that  I  might  catch  up  the  thread  of  that  dream 
again. 


CHAPTER  III.     POKARA'S  STORY 

Pokara  tells  me  how  the  first  Idol  came  to  be  Wor- 
shipped. 

WHEN  I  opened  my  eyes,  the  morning*  parrots 
were  wheeling  away  in  screaming  droves  over 
the  slopes.  Pokara  was  already  awake  and  busy  cook- 
ing yams  for  our  breakfast  on  a  little  fire  in  the  open. 

"  Good-morning,  O  mighty  Pokara !  " 

Pokara,  who  loved  to  be  addressed  thus,  saluted  me 
in  his  fascinating  theatrical  style. 

"  Did  we  travel  together  under  the  moani  all  (sea) 
last  night,  and  watch  a  beautiful  goddess  walk  the  mid- 
night skies  with  stars  shining  in  her  hair,  comrade  ?  " 
said  I,  as  a  bird  flew  out  of  the  sunrise,  pouring  forth 
passionate  melody  in  its  rapture  of  the  awakening  day 
over  our  wide  bedroom  floor  and  the  sculptural  beauty  of 
our  vast,  columned  portico — the  mountain  gaps  high  over 
the  forest  slopes.  For  answer  Pokara  said : 

"  You  taster  nicer  this,  O  Music  Man  of  long  fiddle- 
stick!" 

It  was  good!  Pokara  was  an  estimable  cook,  as  well 
as  being  a  good  companion.  I  was  a  connoisseur  in 
the  derelict  companion  line.  I  had  travelled  across  the 
bushlands,  isles,  and  seas  with  melancholy  old  men  who 
mumbled  in  their  beards;  jolly  old  men  with  big  red 
noses;  soppy,  anaemic-faced  youths;  lean,  cynical  men; 
scraggy,  long-necked  Don-Quixote-like  beings;  religious 
maniacs;  atheists  with  sad  eyes;  glorious  old  liars 
crammed  full  of  romantic  notions;  Homeric  men  who 
would  have  been  knighted  by  kings  and  loved  by  prin- 

92 


POKARA'S  STORY  93 

cesses  in  another  age,  but  alas!  hanged  in  this  new  age 
where  they  slept  with  one  eye  ever  open.  I  had  even 
met  derelict  white  women  on  my  travels — some  in  rags, 
delicate  lyrics  of  sorrow  that  only  God  knew  the  truth 
about;  others,  women  who  wore  virgin  moustaches  and 
swore  so  vilely  that  the  pretty  brown  maid  from  Malaboo 
hung  her  modest  head  as  she  ran  off  into  the  forest  to 
hide  for  shame  that  a  woman  should  swear  so!  And, 
notwithstanding  this  motley  collection  who  had  accom- 
panied me  on  my  travels,  Pokara  was  no  mean  second  to 
the  best  of  them! 

I  recall  that  we  were  both  tired  out  when  we  camped 
by  the  sea  that  day  before  travelling  on  in  the  cool  of 
evening.  For  we  were  within  sound  of  the  native 
villages  and  the  outskirts  of  Papeete.  Pokara  made 
a  hasty  meal  of  cooked  fish  from  the  lagoons.  As  we 
sat  there,  the  ocean  resembled  some  mighty  glass  mirror, 
so  calm  was  the  evening.  But  at  times  the  water  bubbled, 
was  slightly  fretted  into  feathery  foams,  as  though 
something  moved  beneath  the  surface. 

"  You  see  that  on  water  out  there,"  said  Pokara, 
pointing  to  the  movement. 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  I,  wondering  what  on  earth  Pokara 
could  make  out  of  such  an  ordinary  movement  of  the 
ocean. 

"  You  know,  Papalagi,  that  mighty  gods  walk  'bout 
under  sea?" 

"  Well,  yes,  I've  heard  so,"  I  said. 

Then  he  continued : 

"  Big  god  walk  under  sea.  He  got  big  shoulders, 
wide  as  mountains,  and  in  his  large  head  of  wonderful 
hair  he  stick  white  feathers.  And,  as  big  god  Atua  Mara 
move  along  ocean  floor,  feathers  in  his  hair  stick  out  top 
roof  of  the  sea,  for  he  always  walk  about  when  matagi 
(storm)  going  to  blow." 


94  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

Saying  this,  Pokara  became  excited,  and,  true  enough, 
at  the  spot  where  he  pointed,  the  water  on  the  glassy 
surface  trembled,  up  poked  a  feather,  as  though  some 
mighty  god  really  strode  beneath  the  sea.  Pokara  con- 
tinued : 

"Atua  Mara  is  great  shark-god  now;  but  he  once 
live  on  land,  like  me,  like  you.  He  once  sit  under  trees 
and  sang  music  to  the  great  god  of  Light.  He  only  one 
on  world.  No  other  mans,  no  womans,  he  quite  'lone, 
all-e-samee,  he  'appy  god.  Sometimes  he  see  other  gods 
in  sky  when  no  clouds  hide  them.  Once  when  win'  blow, 
he  looker  up  in  sky  and  saw  great  god  Papo  walking 
'cross  sky,  searching  'mong  his  bright  moons  and  stars, 
for  he  wanter  find  gods  who  had  disobey  him!  Sud- 
denly his  angry  eyes  did  flash  out  the  lightnings;  his 
voice  rumbled  the  great  thunders  in  mountains,  for  he 
did  find  Taroa,  the  god  of  Jealousy,  hiding  behind  cloud ! 

"  Papo,  the  Master-of-all-gods,  hold  'im  tight,  and 
struggle  longer  time  with  Taroa.  But  all-e-samee  it  was 
no  good.  Papo  throw  big  worlds  at  Taroa  and  lift  up 
ocean  in  hollow  of  his  hands. 

"  Taroa  fight  all-e-time  like  brave  chief.  Then  he 
fall  dead,  and  was  so  big  that  one  of  his  dark  feet  did 
stretch  right  'cross  skies!  Still,  god  Papo  throw  worlds 
and  oceans  at  his  dead  body,  and  the  waters  of  oceans, 
.  and  the  worlds  that  the  victorious  god  still  threw,  rolled 
down  the  flanks  of  the  dead  god,  and  down  the  skies  like 
big  rains.  So  did  worlds  fall,  and  isles  come  on  the 
seas,  and  waters  of  the  seas  grow  bigger  and  bigger." 

After  this  digression  into  the  wonders  of  shadowland, 
and  the  reason  that  so  many  isles  were  scattered  across 
the  seas,  and  the  wherefore  of  the  ocean's  deepness,  the 
old  Tahitian  continued : 

"  Atua  Mara  see  great  fight  'tween  gods,  and  laugh 
much,  for  he  like  see  god  Papo  win  battles. 


POKARA'S  STORY  95 

"  One  day,  as  Atua  Mara  sit  under  breadfruit  trees 
eating  sweet  potatoes,  taro,  and  more  nicer  things,  he 
feel  lonely.  He  no  one  speak  to.  No  man,  no  wahinee 
(woman),  no  children  cry  or  laugh.  So  he  look  at  sky, 
and  call  out  to  Papo,  the  Master-of-all-gods,  and  say: 
'  I,  Atua  Mara,  am  lonely.  Me  want  'nother  to  sit  with 
me  on  this  world  for  all  the  thousands  of  moons  that  I 
sit  in  nice  sunlight.' 

"  The  Master-of-all-gods  hear  Atua  Mara's  call,  and 
look  out  of  sky  with  angry  eye,  and  say:  *O  Atua 
Mara,  you  got  all  world  for  yourself,  big  forest  trees, 
oceans  that  sing  you  when  win's  blow,  yet  you  want 
more? ' 

"  Atua  Mara  look  up  in  sky  to  where  voice  came  from, 
and  answered : 

" '  Yes,  trees  sing  to  mees,  but  their  songs,  like  mees, 
sound  lonely.' 

"  '  Very  well,'  answered  god  Papo,  '  as  you  not  pleased 
with  my  gifts,  I  show  Atua  Mara  how  to  get  someone 
who  will  sing  you  all  time ! ' 

"  Saying  this,  he  told  Atua  Mara  what  to  do. 

"  That  same  night  Atua  Mara  go  creep  into  forest 
and  pull  off  nice  scarlet  flower  from  flamboyant  tree. 
Then,  doing  what  great  god  Papo  tell  him,  he  cut  his 
side  with  sharp  shell,  and  take  out  little  bone  from  his 
body,  and  wrap  the  flamboyant  flower  round  it.  Then 
he  go  down  shore  to  get  lump  of  soft  red  clay.  This 
he  shape  slowly  with  his  fingers.  At  last  the  lump  of 
clay  did  begin  look  like  what  Atua  Mara's  heart  desired 
and  what  he  dreamed  about  before  he  found  out  that 
he  felt  lonely." 

Saying  this,  Pokara  looked  up  at  me  and  said: 

"  You  must  know,  Papalagi,  that  when  he  was  finish 
and  all  nicer  done  and  smooth  "  (here  Pokara  pointed 
to  his  own  frame  and  ran  one  finger  down  his  thighs), 


96  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

and,  continuing,  said  in  a  hushed  voice,  "  Atua  Mara 
had  made  the  clay  figure  of  the  first  womans !  " 

"  Well,  now ! "  said  I ;  and  Pokara,  observing  my 
interest,  breathed  deeply  and  stroked  his  chin,  then  pro- 
ceeded in  this  wise: 

"  When  Atua  Mara  had  placed  the  little  bone,  which 
he  had  carefully  wrap  up  in  the  flower,  in  the  side  of 
the  clay  figure,  he  did  take  the  clay  womans  and  stand 
it  on  its  feet  'gainst  a  straight  coco-palm  stem.  Doing 
this,  he  very  careful  that  clay  figure's  face  was  turned 
towards  big  waters  of  the  west,  where  sun  say  good-bye 
to  mountain-tops,  before  it  go  down  through  door  of 
shadowland.  That  day,  next  day,  and  after  days,  Atua 
Mara  did  come  and  kneel  before  the  clay  womans  which 
he  had  make.  He  look  upon  it  and  dance  softly  with 
joy  when  he  notice  that,  each  time  he  come,  the  light  of 
each  sunset  had  shone  plopberly  (properly)  on  clay 
figure.  The  clay  get  softer,  and,  where  he  had  make 
small  holes  beneath  clay  womans'  brow,  the  eyelids  did 
begin  to  sprout  dark  lashes.  As  hair  grew  and  grew, 
falling  down  figure's  shoulders,  he  so  pleased  that  he 
run  'bout  forest  calling  out  praise  to  Master-of-all-gods. 
One  day  he  come  at  sunset  and  touch  the  clay  figure. 
His  work  did  look  so  nicer  that  he  touch  it  with  his  lips, 
and,  Masser,  it  was  quite  warm!  The  lips  had  turned 
like  to  red  coral  and  were  curved  like  the  leaf  of  the 
palm.  He  notice  that  the  figure's  clay  bosom  was  smooth, 
and  when  he  did  touch  it,  it  heaved  soft,  like  the  moving 
of  deep,  still  water  when  stars  are  imaged.  Once  more 
he  placed  his  lips  to  the  figure's  mouth.  Ah,  Masser,  that 
was  the  first  kiss  god-mans  ever  gave  unto  womans.  It 
was  then  Atua  Mara  gaze  deeply  at  the  clay  figure's  face 
and  kiss  where  he  had  made  holes,  which  had  swollen 
and  turned  into  soft  eyelids.  He  kiss  again  and  yet 
again,  and  the  eyelids  quivered,  and,  lo,  burst  softly  apart 


POKARA'S  STORY  97 

till  they  caught  and  mirrored  the  light  of  the  setting  sun. 
So  pleased  was  Atua  Mara,  that  he  lift  his  hands  to  sky 
and  no  speak — for  the  eyes  commenced  to  move !  It  was 
then  that  the  clay  limbs  trembled,  the  mouth  open  and 
speak,  saying :  '  Oh,  Atua  Mara,  who  am  I,  here  in  the 
kind  sunlight  ? ' 

"  It  was  then,  Masser,  when  first  woman  spoke,  that 
the  win's  sang  a  long-away-off  song  in  the  breadfruits 
of  the  sacred  groves;  the  shadows  did  fall  over  the 
mountains,  the  stars  turn  pale  in  the  lagoons;  and  before 
the  moon  crept  back  into  the  halls  of  Poluti,  at  dawn, 
it  look  back  across  mountains  with  big  red  face;  then, 
with  hand  over  its  eyes  for  shame,  crept  back  home 
through  the  big  door  to  tell  the  Master-of-all-gods  what 
had  happened  in  the  great  world  outside." 

On  saying  this,  the  Tahitian  gazed  seriously  up  into 
my  face  and  said : 

"  Ah,  Masser,  you  must  know  that  Atua  Mara  had 
knelt  before  his  figure  of  clay  and  worshipped  it!  Next 
night  the  great  God-of-the-skies  did  look  out  from  be- 
hind cloud  and  say  aloud, '  Atua  Mara,  where  art  thous?  ' 
The  god's  voice  did  echo  and  rumble  across  the  moun- 
tains of  this  world,  and  then  did  fade  into  big  silence. 
Then  the  voice  did  come  again  with  greater  anger,  and 
Atua  Mara  see  big  figure  move  'bout  on  misty  moon- 
light of  all  the  sky  as  someone  tramp  'bout  shadowland. 

" '  Atua  Mara,  where  art  thous ? '  came  again  like  big 
echo.  It  was  then  that  Atua  Mara,  who  was  half -mortal, 
crept  out  of  the  thicket  of  bamboos  where  he  had  hid 
at  the  first  sound  of  the  angry  voice  of  the  sky.  He  much 
Afraid,  for  he  know  well  what  he  done!  His  head  did 
hang  down  with  much  shame,  like  unto  great  chief  when 
he  lose  big  battle.  He  answer  great  god  like  unto  this: 
'  I  am  here;  what  you  wanter?  Me  do  nothings,  O  great 
God-of-the-sky ! ' 


98  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

"  Then  the  great  god  Papo  did  answer,  '  I  give  you 
all  you  wanter ;  you  did  ask  for  nice  songs  and  one  mans 
to  speak  to,  and  now  you  have  gone  and  make  figure 
different  to  my  wishes,  and  worshipped  it  instead  of 
worship  me !  For  this  great  sin,  O  Atua  Mara,  I  banish 
you  from  happiness  of  sunlight!  You  shall  move  'bout 
under  great  ocean  for  ever,  and  your  face  be  like  unto 
the  big  face  of  the  grey  shark.' 

}  "  At  hearing  what  the  god  did  say,  poor  Atua  Mara 
creep  back  ashamed  into  forest  to  see  womans  he  had 
made.  As  he  did  creep  out  of  thicket  of  bamboos,  the 
womans  did  much  shriek,  for  Atua  Mara's  face  was  like 
unto  the  cruel  face  of  a  shark.  But,  because  Atua  Mara 
had  made  the  womans  himself  and  had  kissed  her  as  the 
God-of-the-sky  not  wish,  she  was  kind  and  tender;  and, 
though  Atua  Mara  look  much  ugly  with  'im  face  like 
shark,  she  sorry  and  love  'im  still.  So  they  had  many 
children.  Then  one  stormy  night,  when  gods  were 
angry,  Atua  Mara  die  like  all  men  must  die.  When  he 
was  dead,  his  spirit  did  rush  out  of  his  body  and  run 
down  into  the  sea  so  that  he  could  roam  the  ocean.  And 
so  did  he  become  the  shark-god." 

Saying  this,  Pokara  looked  at  me  and  said : 
"  And  so,  Papalagi,  that  is  why  some  childrens  of  the 
isles  to  the  north-west  have  the  cruelty  of  the  shark  in 
their  hearts,  for  they  are  the  descendants  of  the  clay- 
womans  that  Atua  Mara  made.  And  Atua  Mara  is  now 
one  great  jealous  god.  He  ever  walk  'bout  bottom  of 
seas  trying  to  catch  girls  and  mans  so  that  he  can  take 
them  to  his  cave  and  make  them,  like  him,  unhappy."  1 

1  Some  authorities  seem  to  give  different  versions  of  the  South 
Sea  creation  legends.  One  legend  says :  The  islands  were  origi- 
nally a  large  shark.  Another,  that  the  god  Atua  Mara  had  temples 
wherein  the  priests  made  sacrifices  to  his  honour :  but,  being  dis- 
satisfied with  so  much  worship,  he  pulled  the  temples  down,  threw 
them  all  into  the  sea,  and  with  the  rubbish  that  they  made  turned 


POKARA'S  STORY  99 

As  Pokara  finished  his  story  the  shadows  deepened 
over  the  mountains.  We  heard  the  voices  of  the  natives 
who  were  fishing  in  the  bay  at  the  foot  of  the  moun- 
tains. Then  we  scattered  the  red  ashes  of  our  camp 
fire,  for  we  still  had  a  mile  to  journey  ere  we  entered 
Papeete.  And  as  we  walked  away  from  that  spot  we 
looked  back  over  our  shoulders,  and  I  distinctly  observed 
the  feathers  of  the  shark-god's  hair  poking  out  of  the 
ocean's  glassy  expanse.  Pokara  sighed;  and  as  the  first 
stars  crept  out  of  the  deep  velvet  skies  we  faded  away 
along  the  shore  track,  on  the  last  mile  of  our  trouba- 
douring  pilgrimage. 

them  all  into  islands.  Yet  another  legend:  The  great  god  Taroa 
was  the  first  god  of  the  skies :  he  laboured  so  much  over  creation 
that  the  sweat  falling  from  his  body  made  all  the  deep  seas. 


CHAPTER  IV.     I  MEET  ALOA 

The  Hut  in  the  Mountains — A  Modern  Fairy — The  Es- 
cape— Love's  Hospitality — The  Stranger  from  the  In- 
finite Seas! 

IN  this  chapter  I  will  tell  a  true  fairy  story  that  is 
directly  connected  with  Pokara's  and  my  own  ex- 
periences. Indeed,  I  imagine  it  to  be  one  of  the  most 
realistic  fairy-tales  that  it  was  my  lot  to  hear  and  witness 
in  its  most  full-blooded  stage;  I  also  deem  that  it  will 
be  interesting,  in  an  educational  sense,  to  students  of 
modern  mythology,  since  it  quaintly  distinguishes  the 
difference  between  pre-Christian  mythology  and  the  ma- 
terialized Goddesses  and  Creation  myths  of  to-day, 
through  being  modified  by  European  influences. 

About  a  week  after  my  troubadouring  expedition  with 
Pokara,  I  sat  by  the  old  chief's  side  wondering  what 
new  venture  his  erratic  personality  would  thrust  upon 
me.  My  comrade,  clad  in  his  finest  attire  of  dis- 
tinguished chiefdom,  had  puckered  his  brows,  and  his 
eyes  had  that  look  about  them  which  plainly  told  me  that 
he  was  about  to  spring  some  new  surprise  upon  me. 
Suddenly  he  said : 

"  Masser,  you  play  nicer  moosic,  therefore  am  to  be 
trusted;  I  knower  that  you  feel  kinder  towards  good 
mans  who  am  in  trouble  and  so  no  tell  what  you  no  tell 
and  so  make  troubles ! " 

"  Not  I,  Pokara,  old  pal,"  I  responded,  though  I  felt 
I  was  no  apostle  of  such  mighty  virtues  any  more  than 
was  Pokara.  Without  hesitation  the  aged  Tahitian  be- 
gan to  insinuate  by  gentle  hints  that  he  wished  me  to  go 

100 


I  MEET  ALOA  101 

off  with  him  to  see  a  dear  friend  who  lived  in  the  moun- 
tains that  formed  a  grand  background  to  the  semi-pagan 
city,  Papeete.  Before  the  screaming  coveys  of  para- 
keets, that  were  bound  seaward,  had  faded  on  the  hori- 
zon, we  were  off. 

It  was  a  long,  hot  walk  as  I  tramped  by  Pokara's  side 
and  we  threaded  our  way  through  the  deep  jungle 
growth.  I  noticed  that  the  old  chief  often  stopped  and 
looked  warily  over  his  shoulder,  to  see  if  we  were  ob- 
served as  we  crept  along  the  winding  tracks  which  ever 
led  upward  like  some  "  Excelsior  "  of  Nature's  ambitious 
loveliness  that  would  climb  to  scenes  of  ever-increasing 
beauty.  Indeed,  as  we  climbed  the  scenery  became  per- 
fect :  distant  landscapes  dotted  with  waving  palms,  chest- 
nut, breadfruit,  and  strange  trees  painted  with  rich 
crimson  and  delicate  pigments  of  Nature's  voluptuous 
art,  ever  coming  into  fullest  view.  Far  away,  visible 
between  rugged  descents  and  sombre  clefts,  stretched  the 
sapphire-blue  miles  of  the  Pacific  Ocean.  Seemingly  no 
human  habitation  existed  in  those  rugged  leagues  of 
mountain  solitude.  Emerging  from  the  thickets  of  giant 
bamboo,  we  came  to  a  space  on  a  plateau,  and  there,  to 
my  astonishment,  I  found  myself  standing  before  two 
small,  yellow  bamboo  huts.  I  stared  in  amazement,  and 
Pokara  rubbed  his  hands  in  childish  delight  at  seeing  the 
wonder  my  face  expressed.  I  half  fancied  he  had  led 
up  to  one  of  the  enchanted  homesteads  of  the  fairies  that 
he  had  sworn  had  existed  in  those  mountains  in  his 
youth.  Death-like  silence  prevailed.  Even  the  giant  ma- 
hogany trees  ceased  to  sigh  to  the  inblown  breath  of  the 
distant  seas,  as  I  gazed  on  the  magical  scene  before  me. 
Pokara  had  uttered  a  weird  kind  of  cry :  "  Aloa !  Aue !  " 
The  spell  was  broken,  for  the  first  hut's  little  door  was 
suddenly  opened,  and  out  sprang  the  prettiest  fairy- 
maid  it  has  ever  been  my  lot  to  meet.  She  stared  at 


102  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

me    in    a   half    frightened    way    for    a   moment,    then 
said: 

"  Yorana,  Monsieur !  " 

I  lifted  my  old  helmet  hat,  then  in  my  embarrassment 
dropped  my  violin-case  on  her  bare  toes,  and  murmured, 
"  Yorana,  Mademoiselle." 

The  fright  went  from  the  maid's  eyes  when  Pokara 
said: 

"Ah,  he  all  right;  he  nicer  Englese  boy,  play  moosic, 
and  kind  to  Pokara." 

On  hearing  this,  the  Spanish-Tahitian  girl,  for  such 
I  discovered  she  was,  looked  up  at  me  in  a  most  be- 
witching manner,  arid,  smiling,  revealed  a  set  of  in- 
valuable pearly  teeth.  Her  bright,  far-away-looking  eyes 
cast  a  spell  over  me.  In  my  confusion  I  dropped  my 
own  and,  finding  myself  staring  at  her  bare,  graceful 
ankles  and  knees,  I  blushed,  and  once  more  looked 
her  straight  in  the  face,  as  Pokara  chuckled  like  a 
child. 

She  was  clad  in  true  Tahitian  style,  but  with  a  subtle 
decorous  picturesqueness  such  as  a  poet,  sensitive  to  the 
delicate  requirements  of  his  art,  might  have  chosen  as 
a  special  attire  for  her  after  deep  meditation — a  medita- 
tion that  was  essentially  needful,  as  one  will  soon  see. 
Bare  to  about  an  inch  below  the  knees  and  again  from 
the  exquisitely  shaped  throat  to  half  an  inch  below  the 
bosom's  topmost  curve,  her  figure  was  revealed  with  a 
delicacy  that  enchanted  me.  She  appeared  like  some  half- 
serious,  half-wicked  goddess  who  would  lure,  would 
tempt  her  lover,  and  turn  to  stone  at  the  first  hint  of 
mortal  passion.  But  she  was  not  a  goddess  nor  a  beau- 
tifully chiselled  terra-cotta  statue.  Her  eyes  blinked  to 
the  buzz  of  the  forest  flies.  Like  tiny  flashes  of 
wriggling  lightning  in  two  miniature  circles  of  the  mid- 
night tropic  skies,  those  orbs  twinkled  as  the  honey-bee 


I  MEET  ALOA  103 

clung  to  the  crown  of  her  forest-like  hair.  And — alas 
for  human  weakness! — there  was  that  about  her  which 
told  one  that,  for  all  her  delicate  loveliness,  she  was  im- 
bued with  the  frailty  of  mortals. 

Just  as  I  was  thanking  my  lucky  stars  that  my  eyes 
could  dwell  on  so  sweet  a  sight  and  yet  remain  in  the 
realms  of  reality,  the  spell  was  once  again  broken.  For 
the  maid  called  out,  "  Revy !  Awaie !  Come ! "  and  at 
once,  as  though  he  had  awaited  that  call,  out  of  the  same 
small  hut  walked  a  sun-tanned,  handsome  young  French- 
man! And  who  was  he?  I  will  tell  you.  The  young 
Parisian,  standing  there  before  me  with  staring  eyes,  was 
a  convict,  a  fugitive  from  ///  Nou,  the  penal  settlement 
of  Noumea.  He  was  hiding  there  in  the  mountains,  se- 
cure from  the  lashes  of  the  remorseless  surveillants,  hid- 
ing, guarded  by  the  tender  protection  of  that  beautiful 
goddess,  who  was  none  other  than  Pokara's  grand- 
daughter! It  appeared  that  Pokara's  son,  who  had  been 
dead  then  for  years,  had  married  a  handsome  Spanish 
woman  whom  he  had  saved  from  a  wrecked  schooner 
that  had  gone  ashore  at  Papeete  many  years  ago. 

Aloa  was  the  one  child  of  this  marriage,  and  she  was 
the  one  remaining  joy  of  Pokara's  long-vanished  con- 
nubial bliss. 

Reveire,  for  so  I  will  call  that  young  Frenchman,  had 
escaped  from  the  convict  settlement  by  stowing  away 
on  a  schooner  bound  for  Papeete.  He  was  evidently  un- 
aware of  the  schooner's  destination,  for  Papeete,  being 
under  the  French,  was  about  the  most  dangerous  place 
he  could  have  come  to.  Probably  this  fact  made  his 
hiding-place  the  more  secure.  Pokara  had  met  the 
escaped  man  whilst  out  on  one  of  the  schooners,  and 
had  immediately  accepted  the  proffered  bribe.  And  it 
was  whilst  he  was  hiding  in  Pokara's  bungalow  that  his 
granddaughter  Aloa  fell  madly  in  love  with  the  French- 


104  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

man,  and  suggested  that  he  should  hide  with  her  in  the 
mountains.  It  was  a  blessed  union.  Reveire  was  a  fine 
type  of  fellow.  It  was  some  crime  of  passion  that  had 
sent  him  into  that  dreadful  exile.  From  the  young 
Frenchman's  lips  I  heard  many  tales  of  horrors  that  were 
perpetrated  by  the  surveillants  on  the  helpless  convicts 
at  ///  Nou,  New  Caledonia.  Some  of  those  tales  seemed 
incredible;  but,  alas!  Reveire's  manner  expressed  truth 
too  well. 

Many  times  did  I  visit  that  magical  homestead  of  the 
mountains.  And  many  times,  while  on  tropical  nights 
the  stars  sighed  over  the  mountain  trees,  Pokara  and  I 
would  listen  as  the  exile  told  us  his  sorrows,  while  pretty 
Aloa  murmured,  "  Aue!  Aue!"  stroked  her  lover's  face, 
and  kissed  his  hand,  tears  coming  into  her  eyes  to  think 
he  had  suffered  so  much.  As  I  watched  that  strange 
scene  of  secret  domestic  grief  and  happiness,  Pokara 
touched  me  gently  on  the  shoulder  and  whispered : 

"  Ah,  Masser,  we  all  good  peoples  here.  For  I  did 
fetch  priest,  kackerlick  (catholic),  for  my  Aloa's  sake, 
and  he  did  marry  them.  He  good  priest  and  say  noth- 
ings, good  man  he,  because  he  like  God  and  God  like 
him!" 

So  spake  Pokara,  thus  giving  me  this  utmost  satis- 
faction of  recording  the  fact  that  my  goddess  had  en- 
tered the  holy  bonds  of  matrimony  according  to  the 
modern  mythology  of  the  Christian  era. 

"  Wail!  O  wail!  O  jug!  jug!  too  ee  wailo,"  came  the 
plaintive  strain  of  the  South  Sea  nightingale  as  it  sere- 
naded its  mate  during  the  intervals  of  my  violin-playing. 
It  was  no  nightingale  to  Pokara  and  pretty  Aloa;  it  was 
simply  a  tiny,  feathered  cavalier,  robed  in  a  crimson 
[woolly]  gown  of  enchantment,  singing  to  its  long-dead 
lover,  pouring  forth  passionate  melody  over  old  memories 
of  that  time  ere  the  gods  disguised  it  as  a  bird,  when 


I  MEET  ALOA  105 

it  was  a  brave  Tahitian  chief!  Though  I  had  had  many 
weird,  dream-like  experiences  in  my  travels  on  sea  and 
land,  I  was  greatly  impressed  by  the  human  note  of  that 
forest  drama.  And,  as  I  listened  and  watched,  drink- 
ing in  each  incident  like  a  child  at  its  first  pantomime, 
the  fragrant  odours  of  the  dying  forest  flowers  and 
mellowing  mountain  fruits,  wafted  by  the  warm  zephyrs 
over  that  secret  homestead,  made  the  scene  seem  strangely 
dream-like.  But  it  was  all  real  enough  for,  when  I 
placed  my  violin  to  my  chin  and  played  the  strains  of 
the  "  Marseillaise,"  Reveire's  eyes  filled  with  tears  over 
some  memory  of  his  far-off  La  belle  France  that  he 
would  never  see  again.  But  thanks  to  the  inscrutable 
kindness  of  Providence,  a  small  portion  of  the  wistful 
soul  of  chivalrous  France  came  to  him,  and  all  seemed 
well  in  the  end.  For,  ere  I  bade  Pokara  good-bye,  I 
went  with  him  for  a  last  trip  up  into  the  mountains  to 
visit  that  fairy-like  secret  homestead.  Reveire  had  quite 
forgotten  his  home-sick  sorrows.  He  was  laughing  like 
a  big  schoolboy.  As  for  Aloa,  she  was  gazing  up  into 
his  face,  delight  sparkling  in  her  eyes,  as  in  her  arms  she 
held  up  another  little  Frenchman  who  was  just  one  week 
old — and  who  had  bravely  crossed  the  Infinite  Seas  to 
keep  Reveire  company. 

After  losing  sight  of  Pokara,  who  went  on  a  prolonged 
visit  to  some  native  friends  in  a  neighbouring  isle,  I 
secured  a  position  as  violinist  in  the  Presidency  orchestra 
at  Papeete.  But,  alas !  one  night  when  the  sea  wind  was 
moaning  in  the  mountain  palms  near  my  wooden  home- 
stead, I  again  heard  the  call  of  the  wild,  and  plunged 
into  a  life  of  vagabond  adventure  and  madness,  as  will 
be  seen  in  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER  V.     FAE  FAE 

I  meet  O'Hara — The  Emotional  Irish  Temperament — 
The  Tahitian  Temperament — O'Hara  and  I  go  Pearl- 
hunting — Tapee,  the  Old-time  Idol-worshipper. 

PONDERING  over  my  experiences  of  idol-worship 
and  my  further  adventures  in  Tahiti,  the  incidents 
connected  with  the  whole  matter  seem  sufficiently  inter- 
esting for  me  to  give  the  story  in  detail.  Not  the  least 
important  part  of  the  matter  was  the  headstrong  Irish 
youth,  my  companion;  indeed,  I  might  say  that  he  was 
the  prime  mover  in  the  whole  business. 

First,  I  must  say  that  I  can  tell  the  story  only  by 
making  the  facts  appear  like  the  buffooneries  of  a  South 
Sea  burlesque.  Thinking  it  over,  I  must  admit  that  my 
own  cheek  upon  this  particular  occasion  was  enormous 
and  superb!  I  can  recall  no  other  escapade  like  it, 
except,  perhaps,  my  dangerous  adventure  with  Singa 
Loma,  the  dancing  girl,  in  the  heathen  monastery  at 
Fiji.  Though  I  can  claim  the  dubious  honour  of  hav- 
ing arrived  on  the  shores  of  four  continents  with  three 
halfpence  in  my  portmanteau  and  an  all-absorbing  belief 
in  the  generosity  of  man,  of  having  been  a  member  of 
the  crew  of  an  old-time  blackbirder,  and  of  having  been 
thrown  among  the  wildest  characters  found  outside  the 
realms  of  fiction,  I  can  recall  none  who  managed  to 
get  my  head  so  near  the  guillotine  as  did  the  way- 
ward Irishman  O'Hara.  There  was  a  deal  of  humour 
about  O'Hara's  personality;  it  was  the  humour  of  ro- 
mantic youth,  a  pathetic  humour  that  is  discernible  only 
to  the  practical  onlooker,  or  at  the  time  when  the  tale  is 

106 


FAE  FAE  107 

old.  In  saying  humour,  I  do  not  refer  to  humour  as 
defined  in  the  old  books  of  recognized  jokes,  or  the 
works  of  many  modern  humorists,  works  which,  to  me, 
are  the  saddest,  driest  books  in  existence;  but  I  mean 
the  humour  suggesting  poignant  laughter,  flickering  in 
the  light  of  the  eyes  and  rippling  on  the  lips,  coming  like 
visible  music  on  the  flushed,  emotional  countenance — the 
poetry  of  laughter  and  tears  as  suggested  in  a  Mal- 
larme  poem. 

I  had  been  some  three  or  four  weeks  in  Papeete  when 
I  first  met  O'Hara,  the  curly-headed  Irishman.  I  was 
in  the  small  beach  grog-cafe  near  Potuo,  having  a  glass 
of  lime  juice  at  the  time.  By  this,  I  do  not  wish  to 
infer  that  I  was,  or  am,  a  teetotaller:  on  cold  nights 
at  sea  nothing  warms  my  blood  like  a  nip  of  rum. 
O'Hara  introduced  himself  by  giving  me  a  whack  on  the 
back,  and  then  joined  with  immense  gusto  in  the  chorus 
of  "  Killarney,"  which  I  happened  to  be  performing 
on  my  violin.  Ah,  what  a  voice  he  had!  mellow  and 
sweet,  it  vibrated  like  the  strings  of  a  'cello  in  the  hands 
of  a  Maestro.  And,  as  he  lifted  his  blue  eyes  and  sang 
on,  moving  his  fingers  before  him  as  though  he  played  an 
imaginary  guitar,  the  Tahitian  belles,  peeping  through 
the  open  bar-door,  lifted  their  dusky  arms  in  sheer 
ecstasy  as  they  sighed  for  "  One  fond  look  from  those 
wild  eyes."  One  maid  placed  her  hands  on  her  hips 
and,  putting  forth  her  pearly  toe-nailed  feet  in  exquisite 
style,  danced  a  graceful  Tahitian  himine.  The  old 
shellbacks  waxed  enthusiastic  and  pulled  their  whiskers, 
as  they  made  critical  comments  on  the  dancer's  beauty. 
I  might  say  here  that  these  dances  were  wonderful  for 
their  restraint  and  artistic  movement,  quite  devoid  of 
the  vulgar  limb-movements  as  exhibited  in  European 
music-halls. 


108  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

I  attribute  the  almost  menacing  glance  of  those  Tahi- 
tian  orbs  on  the  Celtic  temperament  for  all  that  occurred 
that  night.  For  my  Irish  friend  overshadowed  himself, 
became  one  inch  taller,  and  broadened  considerably  in 
the  shoulders,  on  seeing  the  impression  he  had  created  in 
the  minds  of  those  dusky  maidens.  His  deplorable  wit 
brought  forth  roars  of  laughter  from  the  assemblage  of 
shellbacks  and  half-castes  who  haunted  their  presence. 
Then  he  ordered  a  dozen  drinks,  pressed  four  plugs  of 
ship's  tobacco  into  my  hand,  and  swore  that  he  would 
die  for  my  sake.  I  returned  the  compliment,  and  told 
him  that  I  did  not  wish  him  to  die  if  he  would  only  con- 
sent to  sing  "  Killarney"  once  more.  It  was  nearly  mid- 
night when  the  inevitable  argument  arose  and  the  shell- 
backs and  traders  took  sides.  I  often  wonder  how 
O'Hara  and  I  escaped  suffocation  in  the  dust  of  the 
debris  as  the  empty  meat-tubs,  the  wooden  bar-screens, 
and  a  hundred  drinking-mugs  got  inextricably  mixed  up 
in  the  farewell  melee  and  wild,  insane  farewells  when 
true  comradeship  returned,  after  the  fight,  and  each  man 
had  a  last  drink  and  then  went  his  way. 

Such  was  my  first  meeting  with  O'Hara.  But  I 
sought  his  company  again.  It  was  at  our  next  meeting 
that  he  informed  me  he  knew  a  native  who  could  tell 
us  where  thousands  of  pearls  were  deposited.  "  Pal, 
our  fortunes  are  made!  Savvy?"  I  intimated,  by  a 
conciliatory  nod,  that  I  did  savvy.  I  had  heard  before, 
both  in  Australia  and  the  Islands,  of  such  vast  fortunes 
in  the  pearl  and  nugget  line;  but  I  had  never  found 
them!  The  very  next  day  O'Hara  introduced  me  to  a 
weird-looking  Tahitian  chief,  who  was  supposed  to  know 
where  the  pearls  were  to  be  found,  providing  we  gave 
him  a  sufficiently  large  bribe.  This  chief  (his  name  was 
Tapee),  was  a  most  striking-looking  old  fellow.  He  was 


FAE  FAE  109 

tall  and  finely  built,  and  looked  about  sixty  years  of  age. 
His  costume  consisted  of  bits  of  decorated  fibre  matting 
swathed  about  his  loins.  He  wore  a  large,  cleverly- 
twisted  palm-leaf  hat.  His  face? — well,  it  was  a  face! 
I've  seen  thousands  of  faces  in  my  travels,  but  never  one 
like  his.  Tapee's  face  was  the  essence  of  faces;  it  could 
easily  have  made  fifty  ordinary  ones  and  still  possess 
enough  character  to  make  one  stare  back  if  it  passed  by 
in  a  crowd.  The  mouth  had  been  finely  curved  in  days 
gone  by,  but  years  had  withered  it,  making  the  lips  ap- 
pear sardonic.  The  eyes,  once  clear  as  a  tropic  sky  full 
of  stars,  had  faded  into  a  dim,  far-away  look,  as  though 
Tapee  saw  some  wonderful  new  day  beyond  the  peaks 
of  death — and  stared  into  the  beyond  with  fright!  He 
was  a  full-blooded  heathen,  worshipped  idols,  and  be- 
lieved in  dreams  and  dark  omens. 

"  Look  at  him !  What  a  face ! "  said  O'Hara,  as  he 
nudged  Tapee  in  the  ribs,  bent  forward,  and  exploded 
with  laughter!  Tapee  took  O'Hara's  boisterousness  in 
good  part,  even  as  a  compliment,  then,  swallowing  his 
rum,  beckoned  us  both  to  follow  him  down  to  the  beach. 
When  we  stood  beneath  the  breadfruit  trees,  Tapee  peered 
about  to  convince  himself  that  we  were  unobserved. 
The  shadows  of  night  were  falling  across  the  rugged 
mountain  slopes  behind  semi-pagan  Papeete  city.  We 
could  hear  the  tinkling  of  guitars,  mandolines,  and 
zithers  coming  from  the  Cafe  Franchise  that  stood  by 
the  coco-palms  near  the  main  street  of  Papeete.  The 
enchantment  of  fairyland  was  destroyed  by  the  cries  of 
"Vive  la  France!  Sacre!"  as  sunburnt  gendarmes 
gazed,  as  only  Frenchmen  can  gaze,  into  the  lustrous 
eyes  of  the  pretty  "  Belles  Tahitians." 

"  You  wanter  lot  moneys,  great  heap  pearls,  nice  En- 
glesman,  eh?  "  said  Tapee. 


110  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

"  Oui !  oui ! "  said  O'Hara  and  I  in  one  breath,  as  we 
joyously  pronounced  that  French  monosyllable. 

"  Well,  Masser,  me  knowee  where  tousands  of  pearls 
are  hidder  in  lagoon  near  coast."  Saying  this,  the  old 
chief  looked  up  artfully  and  continued :  "  But  you 
give  me  moneys  firster — if  I  taker  you  there  to-mol- 
low?" 

"  How  do  you  know  that  there  are  pearls  in  the  la- 
goon ?  "  said  I. 

Old  Tapee's  under  lip  trembled  like  a  scolded  babe's. 
I  had  doubted  a  Tahitian's  veracity ! 

"  Me  ole  mans  from  heaben  times,  me  knowee  ebery 
think." 

"  Begorra,  pal,  it's  a  shame, — don't !  Look  at  that 
face!  Does  it  look  dishonest?"  said  O'Hara. 

"  No,"  I  said,  as  I  gazed  reflectively,  then  handed 
Tapee  my  last  forty  francs.  This  made  in  all 
eighty  francs,  for  O'Hara  had  given  him  a  like 
amount. 

That  same  night  O'Hara  pensioned  off  for  life  almost 
everyone  in  Old  Ireland.  He  was  sure  that  Tapee  told 
the  truth  about  those  pearls. 

As  the  sun  was  setting,  we  met  Tapee,  as  arranged. 
"  Come  on,  white  mans,"  said  he,  as  he  toddled  off. 
Then  he  intimated  that,  before  he  took  us  round  the 
coast  to  the  lagoon  where  the  wondrous  pearls  were,  he 
must  first  consult  someone.  O'Hara  and  I  were  in  a 
fever  of  excitement  as  we  followed  him.  It  seemed 
incredible  that  in  a  few  hours  we  should  both  be  wealthy 
men,  and  that  the  elite  of  the  civilized  world  would  fall 
in  humble  obeisance  on  their  knees  before  two  such 
scallawags  as  we  were!  But  it  was  no  dream.  There 
stood  Tapee  before  us,  real  enough,  wisdom  and  truth 
inscribed  on  his  tawny  wrinkled  countenance,  as  he 
said: 


FAE  FAE  111 

"Waiter  here,  Massers;  me  back  presently,  then 
shower  you  pearls." 

"  Yes,  we'll  wait,"  we  replied,  as,  with  a  chuckle  in 
his  dusky  throat,  old  Tapee  toddled  away  beneath  the 
palms.  We  saw  him  fade  away  amid  the  orange  groves. 
O'Hara  and  I  looked  at  each  other. 

"What's  he  up  to?"  said  I. 

It  was  a  lonely  spot.  To  the  right  rose  the  mountains, 
and  below  us,  far  away,  heaved  the  ocean,  as  sleepy 
winds  stirred  the  forest  trees  overhead. 

"Let's  follow  him!"  said  O'Hara. 

Without  discussion  or  hesitation  we  crept  under  the 
coco-palms  after  Tapee. 

It  seemed  as  though  we  had,  in  some  mysterious  way, 
left  the  civilized  world,  and  with  one  footstep  walked 
across  a  thousand  years  into  the  dark  ages.  Tapee  stood 
before  us,  in  a  space  in  the  forest,  waving  his  thin  arms 
and  chanting  into  the  lapping  wooden  ears  of  a  monstrous 
idol!  Though  the  old  native  was  six  feet  in  height,  he 
appeared  diminutive  as  he  stood  in  front  of  that  dilapi- 
dated wooden  image.  Its  big,  goggling,  glass  eyes 
seemed  to  stare  right  over  Tapee's  head,  gazing  mock- 
ingly at  us!  We  instinctively  held  our  breath  as  we 
stood  there  exposed  to  view,  for  so  real  did  the  eyes 
look  that  we  fancied  that  It  had  observed  us.  Then  we 
dodged  back  into  the  shadows,  for  Tapee  had  started 
careering  about  in  the  frantic  capers  of  some  heathen 
rite. 

"He's  a  heathen  idol-worshipper!"  whispered  my 
comrade. 

Then  we  received  another  surprise,  for  out  of  the 
shadows,  just  by  us,  in  response  to  Tapee's  weird  cry 
of  "Awaie!  Awaie!"  sprang  what  appeared  to  be  a 
Tahitian  fairy  figure!  It  was  a  native  girl.  She  was 
dressed  up  in  some  old  heathen-time  costume.  Her  mass 


112  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

of  hair  was  of  bronze-gold  colour,  and  fell  down  in 
luxuriant  waves  which  streamed  over  her  neck  and 
shoulders  in  attractive  contrast  to  the  bright  sun- 
varnished  hue  of  her  smooth  skin.  Her  tresses  were 
thickly  adorned  with  flowers,  and  she  wore  a  barbarian 
kind  of  raiment,  the  tasseled  folds  of  which  reached 
down  to  her  knees.  (It  was  a  style  similar  to  that  which 
I  had  seen  worn  at  the  tribal  festivals  in  New  Guinea 
and  the  Solomon  Isles).  In  a  moment  she  too  was 
careering  round  the  idol  in  company  with  old  Tapee,  as 
she  chanted  a  himine. 

"  O  Loa ! "  whispered  Tapee,  as  he  turned  about  and 
stared  into  the  forest  shadows,  as  though  he  wondered 
if  we  were  near  enough  to  hear  the  girl's  loud  singing. 
O'Hara  moved  forward. 

"Keep  out  of  sight;  let  us  see  it  all,"  I  whispered, 
in  at  the  same  time  pulling  him  back  by  the  coat-tail 
into  the  shadows.  Tapee  had  commenced  to  dance  again. 
Then  the  girl  fell  on  her  knees  before  the  big  image, 
and  began  to  beat  her  body  with  her  hands  in  a  heathen- 
like  manner. 

To  my  sorrow  Tapee  suddenly  turned  round  and  ob- 
served us  peeping  from  the  bamboo  thicket.  He  looked 
frightened  out  of  his  life. 

"  Oh,  Masser,  you  no  tell  Flenchmans  that  me  worship 
idols?  Me  know  where  pearls  are,  and  'tis  this  nicer 
idol  who  tell  Tapee  where  pearls  are  found." 

My  comrade  only  stared,  hardly  knowing  what  the  old 
native  was  driving  at,  till  he  continued  : 

"  I  come  here  to  ask  this  idol  where  pearls  are,  now 
I  am  awake.  You  know,  Masser,  that  I  only  dream  of 
pearls  first;  idol  tell  all  'bout  after — savvy?" 

Thinking  of  my  money,  I  shouted,  and  somewhat 
fiercely  I  think,  "  Don't  you  know  where  the  pearls  are, 
you  old  scoundrel?  What  about  the  eighty  francs  we've 


FAE  FAE  113 

given  you? "  I  added,  as  Tapee  hung  his  head,  and  then 
said: 

"  Me  get  Fae  Fae,  who  am  witch-girl,  to  ask  idol 
where  the  pearls  are,  and  if  idol  no  tell  her,  well,  me  give 
you  back  your  moneys !  " 

It  all  ended  in  Tapee  falling  on  his  knees  and  saying: 
"  Oh,  Masser,  me  and  Fae  Fae  be  put  in  calaboose  if  you 
tell  of  us.  Me  great  chief  and  Fae  Fae  is  great  princess, 
same  blood  as  Queen  Pomare." 

So  spake  Tapee,  as  he  pointed  to  the  girl,  who  stood 
trembling  and  abashed  beside  him.  After  that  the  old 
chief  took  us  into  his  confidence,  and  we  found,  from 
what  he  told  us  as  we  stood  there,  that  he  too  was  re- 
lated to  the  Queen  and  that  Fae  Fae  was  his  niece.  It 
appeared  that  he  had  managed  to  get  her  under  his  in- 
fluence, and  so  she  often  came  out  of  the  palace  across 
the  valley,  to  join  Tapee  in  his  heathen  worship.  For 
a  long  time  the  old  man  wailed  into  our  ears.  Then  we 
gathered  that  Fae  Fae  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  a 
high  chief  named  Tautoa,  and  that  Tapee  was  very  much 
afraid  of  this  chief. 

All  that  seemed  to  concern  my  Irish  comrade  was 
Fae  Fae  and  her  fright.  O'Hara's  manner  became  quite 
tender  as  he  repeatedly  assured  her  that  we  should  never 
say  a  word  to  anyone  about  what  we  had  seen.  At  this 
Fae  Fae  gave  O'Hara  a  languishing  glance,  and  seemed 
to  look  with  great  favour  upon  him,  notwithstanding  that 
she  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  the  high  chief  Tautoa 
whom  Tapee  had  just  told  us  about. 

In  the  end  we  helped  Tapee  to  drag  his  huge  idol  into 
the  deeper  undergrowth  and  so  hide  it  securely  from 
prying  eyes.  The  old  chap  was  so  overcome  by  our 
friendly  manner  that  he  volunteered  to  refund  us  part 
of  our  money.  Indeed,  I  think  we  got  it  all  back,  less 
thirty-five  francs,  which  Tapee  had  spent  in  the  fan- 


114  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

tan  bar-room  at  the  Chinese  quarter  at  Soloam,   Pa- 
peete. 

So  ended  our  adventure  as  far  as  the  pearls  were  con- 
cerned; but  it  led  to  another  very  exciting  one,  as  will 
be  seen  in  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER  VI.     ABDUCTION  OF  A  PRINCESS 

O'Hara  in  Love — Fae  Fae's  Midnight  Elopement — 
Chased — A  Melodramatic  Race  for  Life — The  Innocence 
of  Eve — Temptation — The  Lost  Bride — The  Madness  of 
Romance — Outbound  for  Honolulu. 

I  HAD  just  returned  from  an  engagement  where  I  had 
performed  violin  solos  at  the  French  Presidency  con- 
cert, when  I  met  O'Hara  again.  I  was  sitting  in  the 
wooden  cafe  at  Selao  at  the  time. 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter  now  ? "  I  said,  as  O'Hara 
greeted  me.  I  noticed  that  he  looked  rather  mournful. 

"  Pal,  I'm  not  going  to  be  done;  I've  made  up  my 
mind  to  marry  the  girl  Fae  Fae,  and  be  damned  to  her 
old  nigger  chief,  Tautoa !  " 

One  can  imagine  my  astonishment  as  O'Hara  blurted 
out  the  foregoing,  for  I  had  no  knowledge  whatever  that 
he  had  seen  Fae  Fae  since  we  had  first  seen  the  girl 
dancing  round  an  idol  in  the  forest.  Slowly  the  truth 
came  out.  It  appeared  that  O'Hara  had  been  secretly 
meeting  Fae  Fae  every  night  since  the  idol  adventure. 
Things  had  come  to  such  a  pass  that  Fae  Fae  had  agreed 
to  bolt  from  the  palace  and  marry  him. 

"  What's  the  trouble,  then  ?  Don't  you  want  to  marry 
her?"  said  I,  as  O'Hara  finished  a  glowing  account  of 
Fae  Fae's  affection  for  him. 

Then  O'Hara  made  a  further  confession.  It  appeared 
that,  in  his  usual  careless  way,  he  had  been  overbold, 
and  so  had  spoiled  his  chance  of  wooing  Fae  Fae  on  the 
sly.  He  had  gone  to  the  Queen's  palace  one  night,  and 
had  serenaded  Fae  Fae  on  the  guitar,  like  some  old- 

115 


116  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

time  Spanish  cavalier.  This  mad  act  had  got  Fae  Fae 
into  trouble,  for  she,  in  her  impulsive  way,  had  rushed 
from  the  palace  stockade  gate  straight  into  O'Hara's 
arms.  It  so  happened  that  Tautoa,  the  chief  to  whom 
Fae  Fae  was  betrothed,  caught  them  in  each  other's  arms ! 
And  my  chum  had  made  matters  worse,  for  he  had 
managed  to  give  Tautoa  a  black  eye  in  the  melee  that 
followed  his  mad  presumption.  It  appeared  that  Fae  Fae 
was  now  under  strict  surveillance.  And,  more,  the  head 
chiefs  had  laid  a  charge  at  the  Government  Presidency 
about  the  matter.  And  I  believe  that,  even  at  that  early 
date,  a  warrant  was  out  for  the  arrest  of  O'Hara  for 
disturbing  the  peace  and  forcing  his  presence  on  a  native 
maid  of  royal  blood.  When  O'Hara  first  unfolded  his 
plans  for  abducting  Fae  Fae,  I  endeavoured  to  reason 
with  him. 

"  It's  ridiculous,  pal.  You're  talking  like  a  South 
Sea  novel.  You  can't  seize  a  beautiful  girl  of  royal 
blood,  a  princess,  and  carry  her  away  from  the  palace 
like  some  old  freebooter  of  the  southern  seas.  Besides, 
we'll  be  arrested  by  the  gendarmes.  And  there's  the 
old  Queen  to  be  considered,  her  consort,  her  son,  and, 
last  and  not  least,  Fae  Fae's  legitimate  lover,  Tautoa." 

O'Hara  used  a  quite  unprintable  word  as  I  mentioned 
that  last  name.  Then  he  stared  as  though  I  were  mad, 
and  said : 

"  Me!  talking  like  a  novel!    I  mean  to  have  her." 

His  eyes  flashed  as  he  blurted  out  his  plans,  telling 
me  how  easy  it  was  to  steal  a  girl  and  bolt  off  into 
the  mountains!  His  chest  swelled  visibly  over  his 
thoughts.  Holding  up  his  glass  of  vile  Papeete  beer 
in  one  hand,  melodramatic  fashion,  he  lifted  his  chin 
and  burst  into  some  Irish  song  that  told  of  maids  clasped 
in  the  arms  of  impassioned  lovers.  As  he  finished  his 
extemporization,  the  native  girls  who  were  standing  at 


ABDUCTION  OF  A  PRINCESS        117 

the  shanty's  door,  murmured,  "  Yorana !  Yorana !  " 
One  dusky  Tahitian  belle,  with  large,  lustrous  eyes, 
crossed  her  bare,  smooth  arms  and  one  timid  knee,  and, 
as  she  leaned  against  the  door  frame,  gave  a  delicious 
pout,  telling  with  admiring  eyes  all  that  a  romantic  maid 
can  tell  when  gazing  on  a  man  whose  favour  she  yearns 
to  gain. 

Though  I  had  sought  by  wordy  wisdom  to  persuade 
O'Hara  to  abandon  his  mad  idea  of  abducting  Fae  Fae 
from  Pomare's  palace,  my  heart  was  as  enthusiastic 
about  it  all  as  was  his, own.  The  philosophy  of  the 
first  fine  careless  rapture  of  youth  was  mine.  I  felt  I 
was  out  in  the  world  to  live,  if  somewhat  faintly,  some 
of  the  glorious  romance  that  poets  wrote  about.  I  well 
knew  that  the  great  crabbed  philosophies  were  written 
by  perished  feathered  quills  on  musty  parchments,  quills 
that  once  fluttered  on  living  wings  among  the  blossom- 
ing boughs.  I  knew  that  no  pen,  however  inspired,  could 
sing  the  impassioned  philosophy  of  life  as  the  throbbing 
red  throat  of  the  brown  thrush  can  sing,  or  as  O'Hara 
and  I  could  live  it.  And,  so,  I  must  confess  that  the 
idea  of  the  breadfruit  sighing  as  we  sat  awaiting  the 
sunset's  close  and  O'Hara  impatiently  watching  for  the 
favourable  moment  to  abduct  a  Tahitian  princess  from 
a  pagan  palace  on  a  South  Sea  isle,  seemed  the  perfect 
music  and  the  most  noble  endeavour  of  the  Psalm  of 
Life! 

For  several  moments  I  compressed  my  brows  as 
though  in  deepest  meditation  over  the  wisdom  or  folly 
of  doing  what  O'Hara  proposed. 

He  watched  me  closely,  then  suddenly  gripped  my 
hand. 

"  Pal,  I'm  with  you ;  it  shall  be  done,"  I  said. 

My  Irish  comrade  was  satisfied.  He  knew  me.  I 
hadn't  stowed  away  on  sailing  and  tramp  ships,  and 


118  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

lived  with  rats  in  coal  bunkers  on  long  voyages  across 
tropic  seas,  without  looking  a  bit  determined  when  I 
had  really  made  up  my  mind — well — to  make  a  fool  of 
myself ! 

I  knew  that  Queen  Pomare  of  Tahiti  was  allowed  a 
certain  amount  of  authority  over  her  people.  Though 
aged,  she  was  an  attractive,  powerful-looking  woman. 
It  was  also  hinted  by  the  officials  that  she  still  leaned 
towards  her  old  creed.  However  that  may  have  been, 
her  retinue  was  made  up  of  many  old-time,  ex-cannibal 
chiefs.  One  had  only  to  go  by  night  up  the  mountain 
slopes  by  Tamao  to  hear  the  low  chanting  of  festival 
sounds  coming  from  the  solitary  palace,  sounds  that 
were  suspiciously  like  the  wild  night-wassailing  of  some 
frenzied  heathenland! 

The  very  next  night  we  made  our  plans.  O'Hara 
smacked  me  on  the  back,  and  called  down  the  blessings 
of  the  Virgin  on  my  head  for  helping  a  pal  in  trouble. 
It  was  finally  settled  that  we  should  set  out  on  our  ro- 
mantic, risky  adventure  after  dusk,  the  very  next  day. 

The  inevitable  hour  arrived,  I  stood  beneath  the  palms 
at  the  arranged  spot. 

"  Are  you  ready,  pal  ?  "  said  O'Hara,  as  he  met  me. 

"I  am!"  said  I;  and  then  added:  "I  suppose  you 
are  determined  to  attempt  to  abduct  Fae  Fae  ?  " 

"  By  the  holy  Virgin,  yes ! "  he  muttered. 

"  I  can  rely  upon  you  that  the  maid  knows  of  your 
intentions,  and  has  agreed  to  bolt  off  into  the  moun- 
tains with  you  ?  "  said  I. 

O'Hara  gave  a  scornful  laugh.  It  was  then  he  told 
me  that  old  Tapee  had  slipped,  under  the  cover  of  night, 
into  the  palace,  and  had  bribed  one  of  the  sentinels  to 
deliver  his  billet-doux  into  Fae  Fae's  hands. 

"  Ho !  so  that's  how  you've  managed  it  all,  is  it  ?  " 
I  answered. 


ABDUCTION  OF  A  PRINCESS        119 

I  felt  much  relief;  for  I  will  admit  that  I  knew  O'Hara 
well  enough  to  realize  that  he  was  likely  to  go  off  and 
seize  a  maid  who  knew  nothing  of  his  coming.  At 
hearing  that  old  Tapee  was  in  the  secret,  I  felt  cheered 
up,  and  had  greater  faith  in  the  result  of  the  expedition. 
So  off  I  went,  down  the  forest  track  with  O'Hara,  on 
the  wildest  adventure  into  which  I  have  ever  plunged. 
We  crept  across  the  lonely  Broome  Road,  and  passed 
under  the  shades  of  the  giant  breadfruit  trees.  The 
stars  were  shining.  Hardly  a  breath  of  wind  disturbed 
the  leaves  of  the  mountain  palms.  O'Hara  clutched 
me  by  the  arms,  as  though  he  were  afraid  I  might  change 
my  mind — and  make  a  bolt. 

"  I'm  game;  don't  worry.    I'll  see  you  through,"  said  I. 

"  Faith  and  be  shure,  you're  a  good  pal,"  said  my 
adventurous,  amorous  comrade. 

Taking  a  large  flask  from  his  pocket,  he  handed  it  to 
me.  Though  not  an  imbiber  of  proof  spirit,  I  took  rather 
a  bold  nip,  feeling  that  a  little  extra  Dutch  courage  might 
not  be  amiss  ere  the  night  was  out!  We  had  arrived 
at  the  outskirts  of  the  large  cultivated  space  that  half 
surrounded  Queen  Pomare's  palace  stockade.  As  we 
passed  through  the  arcades,  constructed  by  Nature's 
brooding  handiwork  of  interlacing  branches  of  tropical 
undergrowth  twining  round  the  first  pillars  of  giant 
trees,  my  heart  fluttered  slightly. 

"  Is  it  some  mad  dream  ? "  I  thought,  as  we  stood 
on  the  little  moonlit  slope  that  faced  the  palatial  stock- 
ade of  Pomare's  dwelling.  Standing  there,  by  O'Hara's 
side,  I  peeped  down  the  palm-terraced  groves  and  spotted 
the  large  one-storied,  verandahed  building.  It  had  an 
ominous  look  about  it.  Then  O'Hara  took  me  up  a 
track  where  I  had  never  been  before. 

"Keep  in  the  shadows;  don't  expose  yourself,  for 
God's  sake ! "  he  whispered,  as  we  stole  onward. 


120  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

We  arrived  among  the  thickets  of  dense  bamboos 
growing  by  the  wooden  gate  that  was  the  side  entrance 
to  the  palace.  We  stood  perfectly  still  and  waited. 
O'Hara  gave  a  low  whistle.  Our  hearts  beat  like  muf- 
fled drums  as  we  stood  there.  I  looked  at  the  dim  out- 
line of  the  palace.  All  was  silent,  phantom-like,  in  the 
rising  moonlight.  Only  one  small  light  flickered  in  the 
little  latticed  window-hole  by  the  main  entrance. 

"  What's  that  light  ?  "  quoth  I  in  a  hushed  voice. 

"  It's  where  the  Queen  sleeps,"  replied  my  pal. 

"  Is  it  really  ? "  I  whispered,  as  I  thought  in  some 
mad  way  of  the  old  romantic  novels  that  I  had  read  in 
my  schooldays. 

Yes,  and  there  was  I,  sure  enough,  with  a  mad  Irish- 
man, outside  a  barbarian's  palace,  awaiting  the  psycho- 
logical moment  to  seize  a  heathen  princess! 

We  must  have  stood  there  for  half  an  hour  before 
O'Hara  gave  the  fourth  whistle  and  said,  "  She's  being 
watched,  that's  what  it  is;  otherwise,  begorra,  she'd 
have  come  out  of  that  gate  before  now." 

"  What  shall  we  do  now?"  said  I,  feeling  fit  for  any 
emergency  as  the  spirit  commenced  to  take  effect.  The 
romance  of  the  whole  situation  began  to  bubble,  to  thrill 
in  my  soul.  Indeed,  I  had  become  as  enthusiastic  as 
O'Hara  over  the  prospective  elopement  of  Fae  Fae. 

"  Old  pal,"  said  he,  "  I'm  going  into  the  palace  to 
seize  her ;  that's  what  I'm  going  to  do !  " 

"  Good  Lord,  really !  "  said  I,  as  visions  arose  of 
dramatic  scenes  that  might  ensue  when  we  got  into  that 
eerie-looking,  big  wooden  building. 

"  Won't  they  hear  us — and  club  us  ?  "  said  I. 

"Not  they!  I've  been  in  the  palace  before  by  night; 
I  know  where  Fae  Fae  sleeps,  and  it's  no  hard  job  to 
find  her." 

"You  do,  do  you!"  thought  I.     Then  O'Hara  be- 


ABDUCTION  OF  A  PRINCESS        121 

gan  to  creep  down  the  orange  grove  and,  like  some  ob- 
sequious shadow,  I  followed. 

Not  a  sound  broke  the  primeval  stillness  as  we  curved 
round  the  small  track  that  led  to  the  main  entrance  of 
the  palace.  At  that  very  moment  a  night  bird,  some- 
where up  in  the  mangroves,  burst  into  song.  It  gave 
a  sharp  scream  as  we  passed  like  shadows  beneath  the 
trees,  and  then  flapped  away.  We  both  leapt  back  into 
the  deeper  gloom.  Our  hearts  nearly  stopped,  for  lo! 
the  bushy  head  of  some  high  chief  suddenly  poked  out 
of  the  half-open  gate  at  the  main  entrance.  We  watched 
that  big  mop-head  and  fierce-looking  face  turn  to  the 
right  and  left,  peer  into  the  moonlight  a  moment,  then 
we  saw  it  withdrawn  from  view. 

"  I'd  like  to  give  that  cove  one  on  his  napper !  "  whis- 
pered O'Hara,  with  a  levity  which  I  thought  consider- 
ably out  of  place  at  such  a  time.  "  I  know  him;  it's  old 
thin-legs,  the  night  sentinel.  I've  tried  to  bribe  the  old 
wretch,  but  'twasn't  any  go." 

"  Oh ! "  said  I,  for  the  want  of  saying  something  bet- 
ter at  such  a  moment.  Indeed,  the  most  poignant  phrases 
that  the  English  language  can  twist  together  could  not 
have  expressed  all  that  I  felt. 

"  What  do  you  intend  doing  now  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Why,  I'm  going  to  slip  into  the  palace  and  see  Fae 
Fae  in  her  private  chamber.  She'll  soon  come  when 
she  sees  us." 

"Are  you  sure  she  won't  scream?  Don't  you  think 
it's  a  bit  unwise,  in  the  night-time,  like  this  ?  " 

"Blimey  ducks,  no!"  chuckled  O'Hara.  Thereupon 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  seize  the  blessed  Queen  herself, 
if  O'Hara  wished  me  to  do  so. 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  had  wondered  if  Fae  Fae  would 
not  take  fright  at  seeing  me  with  O'Hara.  It  appeared 
that  my  comrade  had  wooed  Fae  Fae  considerably  in 


122  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

the  little  time  he  had  known  her.  But  I  had  only  seen 
her  twice — and  there  I  was,  bound  for  her  sleeping- 
apartment  in  the  dead  of  night. 

Once  again  we  moved  on.  Arriving  before  a  little 
door  that  led  into  a  roomy  apartment  adjoining  the  west 
wing  of  the  palace,  O'Hara  gently  pulled  another  door 
open.  We  both  crept  in.  It  was  nearly  pitch  dark ;  the 
faint  rays  of  moonlight,  peeping  through  chinks  in  the 
roof,  just  helped  us  to  grope  along.  As  we  moved 
stealthily  across  the  floor,  I  stumbled  over  a  large  cala- 
bash. We  stood  still,  breathless  with  suspense.  I  looked 
around :  on  the  walls,  dimly  revealed  by  the  moonlight, 
hung  old  war-clubs,  spears,  and  other  ancient  heirlooms 
of  the  Pomarean  dynasty.  We  heard  a  door  open,  then 
it  was  shut  again,  for  the  sounds  of  distant  laughter  and 
heathen  voices  swiftly  ceased.  It  came  from  somewhere 
on  the  other  side  of  the  courtyard,  that  portion  of  the 
palace  where  Queen  Pomare  and  her  suite  dwelt.  Once 
more  we  crept  on.  Passing  across  another  room,  we 
suddenly  came  out  into  a  small  courtyard. 

Turning  to  me,  O'Hara  whispered: 

"  You  see  that  door  over  there,  on  the  far  side  of 
that  wooden  building?  Well,  it  opens  into  a  long  cor- 
ridor, and  at  the  far  end  is  the  chamber  where  Fae  Fae 
sleeps." 

I  nodded. 

"  Are  you  game  to  follow  me,  pal  ?  "  he  added. 

"  I  am !  "  said  I,  as  I  clutched  my  revolver  and  thought 
how  "  gamey  "  we  might  both  soon  be  if  we  were  dis- 
covered. 

I  don't  know  if  my  story  sounds  like  a  sketch  from 
some  semi-comic  opera,  but  I  do  know  that  it  was  a  se- 
rious thing  for  us  to  attempt  to  get  into  a  native  girl's 
bedroom  as  we  did  that  night.  But,  mind  you,  I  believed 
implicitly  in  O'Hara's  good  intentions.  Never  once  had 


ABDUCTION  OF  A  PRINCESS        123 

I  observed  him  take  a  liberty  with  a  maid.  He  had  the 
Celtic  temperament,  but  was  clean-minded,  notwithstand- 
ing his  sins.  We  opened  the  door  that  led  down  the  cor- 
ridor to  Fae  Fae's  bed-chamber;  then  we  took  a  rather 
bold  nip  at  the  flask  of  whisky.  In  complete  obedience 
to  O'Hara's  whispered  directions,  I  at  once  went  down 
on  my  knees,  then,  hand  over  hand  and  knee  over  knee, 
we  began  to  travel  down  that  dark,  narrow  corridor! 
A  stream  of  moonlight  crept  through  the  airholes  that 
were  in  the  roof.  I  could  just  discern  O'Hara's  ragged 
coat-tails  in  front  of  me  as  I  blindly  groped  along  be- 
hind him.  I  saw  the  dim  shadows  of  the  palms  waving 
about,  silhouetted  on  the  wooden  walls  as  the  winds 
stirred  the  forest  trees  outside.  Arriving  about  half-way 
down  the  corridor,  I  whispered  to  my  comrade : 

"  Supposing  she's  asleep  ?  Do  you  intend  to  seize 
her  whilst  she  lies  in  bed?  Won't  she  scream  if  she 
sees  me  with  you,  and  awaken  the  whole  palace  ?  " 

I  knew  what  English  girls  would  do  if  they  suddenly 
awoke  and  saw  two  sunburnt  tramps  on  their  knees, 
peering  round  the  edge  of  their  bedroom  door  at  the 
dead  of  night 

My  relief  was  considerable  when  O'Hara  whispered: 

"  Don't  worry ;  Fae  Fae  expects  me,  and  it's  not  her 
who  is  going  to  scream."  Then,  in  a  tense  whisper,  he 
added :  "  Besides,  she  sleeps  alone,  away  from  the  rest 
of  the  palace  folk." 

"  Thank  God  for  that  much ! "  thought  I,  as  we  once 
more  started  to  creep,  like  two  monstrous  slugs,  down 
the  floor  of  the  corridor. 

O'Hara  suddenly  stopped.  My  heart  gave  a  slight 
flutter.  I  knew  we  had  arrived  outside  Fae  Fae's  cham- 
ber. I  heard  my  comrade  give  two  soft  taps — so,  "  tap !  " 
'*  tap !  " — on  the  door's  bamboo  panel  with  his  knuckles. 
Each  tap  seemed  to  echo  and  re-echo  down  the  silent 


124  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

corridor.  I  was  thankful  that  I  had  drunk  deeply  from 
the  whisky-flask  which  O'Hara  had  so  thoughtfully 
handed  me.  Had  we  been  about  to  seize  a  heathen  man, 
or  even  an  old  woman,  the  matter  would  have  seemed 
different.  Notwithstanding  that  I  had  knocked  about 
the  world,  the  thought  of  so  rudely  disturbing  a  maiden's 
slumber  and  those  romantic  ideals  which  I  can  find  no 
name  for  here,  had  still  a  great  influence  over  me.  Con- 
sequently, I  paused  on  the  threshold  of  that  chamber. 
She  was  an  innocent  girl,  none  need  doubt  that  much. 
To  the  reader,  who  has  never  plunged  into  such  a  mid- 
night venture  as  I  tell  of  here,  I  can  confidently  say 
that  he  would  require  a  little  artificial  stimulant  to  buck 
his  courage  up  were  he  placed  under  like  circumstances. 
There's  something  eerie  in  creeping  into  a  semi-heathen 
palace  and  crawling  down  an  interminable  corridor  to 
seize  a  maid  as  she  sleeps  in  her  chamber.  And  all  this, 
mind  you,  not  for  one's  self,  but  for  another!  And, 
again,  there  was  not  only  the  danger  of  detection  by 
that  heathen  crew  to  reckon  with,  but  also  the  French 
officials,  who  would  assuredly  give  us  penal  servitude  in 
the  calaboose  (jail),  or  transport  us  to  Noumea  should 
they  catch  us  on  this  mad  venture.  But  for  the  fact 
that  we  had  youth's  superabundant  confidence  on  our 
side,  I  am  sure  we  should  never  have  ventured  on  such 
an  escapade.  I  recall  the  breathless  hush  of  that  su- 
preme moment  when  O'Hara  once  more  gently  tapped 
the  maiden's  door. 

"  Fae  Fae!"  he  whispered. 

How  eagerly  we  listened!  Only  a  faint  moan  came 
from  the  forest  palms  just  outside,  then  all  was  silent 
again. 

"  Begorra,  she's  not  there,"  came  in  an  agonized  whis- 
per from  O'Hara. 

Our  hearts  thumped — we  heard  a  rustling  sound,  which 


ABDUCTION  OF  A  PRINCESS        125 

resembled  a  noise  made  by  someone  yawning.  An  un- 
comfortable suspicion  flashed  through  my  brain:  Had 
O'Hara  mistaken  the  room?  and  was  that  chamber  oc- 
cupied by  some  mighty  chief? 

"  What's  that  ?  "  I  said  in  a  tense  whisper,  as  that 
eerie  sound  came  again,  with  the  soft  patter  of  bare 
feet.  "  Look  out,  pal !  "  I  whispered,  instinctively  duck- 
ing my  head  in  some  vague  idea  that  a  club  was  falling 
on  it! 

O'Hara  tapped  again,  then  softly  called  the  maid's 
name.  I  looked  up,  my  heart  in  my  mouth,  as  we 
crouched  there,  both  on  our  hands  and  knees.  The 
door  creaked.  We  watched — and  it  was  being  slowly 
opened.  Through  a  chink,  that  was  no  wider  than  two 
inches,  peeped  two  sparkling  eyes,  half  hidden  by  di- 
shevelled tresses — it  was  Fae  Fae! 

In  a  swift,  hoarse  whisper  O'Hara  said: 

"  It's  only  us,  Faey." 

At  once  the  door  opened  a  little  wider,  and  two  as- 
tonished eyes  looked  down  upon  us,  both  there  on  our 
hands  and  knees! 

"  Oh,  Messieurs,  you  be  killed ! "  she  whispered,  as 
she  lifted  her  hands  and  gazed  upon  us  in  an  awestruck 
manner. 

Slinking  there,  behind  O'Hara's  coat-tails,  I  gazed  up 
at  the  maid  through  his  armpits ! 

"Didn't  you  hear  me  whistle,  Faey  dearest?"  said 
my  comrade,  as  the  astonished  girl  still  stared  at  us  in 
fright. 

"  No,  Monsieur  Hara,  I  sleep  fast,"  she  said,  rubbing 
her  sleepy  eyes. 

At  this  candid  confession,  O'Hara  looked  crestfallen. 
I,  too,  must  confess  that  a  dash  of  cold  water  seemed 
to  have  been  thrown  upon  the  fires  of  my  romantic  soul. 
I  pinched  my  leg  to  convince  myself  that  I  was  not 


126  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

dreaming.  It  was  real  enough,  ho  dream  at  all.  It 
was  a  solid  me  intruding  into  a  girl's  bed-chamber  at 
the  dead  of  night,  ready  to  clutch  the  maid  and  help 
my  comrade  to  carry  her  away  into  the  moun- 
tains ! 

"  Come,  Fae  Fae,  don't  go  back  on  me,  darlint,"  wailed 
O'Hara,  as  the  pretty  maid  looked  about  in  a  bewil- 
dered way,  as  though  hesitating  as  to  what  she  ought  to 
do  under  such  distressing  circumstances. 

At  this  moment  I  poked  my  head  up  from  behind 
O'Hara  and  revealed  my  physiognomy  clearly  in  the 
shifting  moonlight. 

"  Oui !  oui !  Awaie !  "  she  woefully  ejaculated,  as  she 
recognized  my  impertinent  presence.  Then  she  peered 
again,  and  said :  "  Tre  bon !  it's  nicer  fiddle  man !  " 

I  rose  to  my  feet  as  though  I  had  just  received  a  knight- 
hood, and  bowed  with  such  courtesy  as  I  felt  was  due 
at  such  a  moment.  I  may  have  blushed,  but  I  do  know 
that  my  heart  warmed  considerably  to  the  possibilities 
of  the  whole  business.  Much  of  the  girl's  apprehension 
seemed  to  have  vanished  at  discovering  that  it  was  I 
who  had  accompanied  O'Hara  on  my  hands  and  knees 
down  that  damned  corridor!  Ah  me!  As  she  stood 
there  bathed  in  moonlight,  her  tiny  blue  chemise  orna- 
mented with  flowers,  I  quite  envied  O'Hara.  The  hibis- 
cus blossoms  in  her  mass  of  rich-hued  hair  were  crushed 
on  that  side  where  her  pillowed  head  had  lain  but  a  mo- 
ment before  in  sleep.  I  felt  the  thrill  of  her  presence. 
Standing  there  in  the  gloom,  I  saw  O'Hara  put  forth 
his  arms  towards  Fae  Fae. 

"  Come  on,  Faey,"  he  whispered. 

Leaning  forward  in  the  gloom,  Fae  Fae  misjudged 
the  distance,  and  placed  her  mouth  on  my  flushed  cheek. 
Then  it  really  seemed  that  the  tender  pressures  of  our 
groping  hands  got  inextricably  mixed  up.  I  became 


ABDUCTION  OF  A  PRINCESS        127 

bolder.  Looking  into  the  girl's  face,  I  said  in  an  ap- 
pealing way: 

"  Come,  Fae  Fae,  do  come !  " 

I  felt  that,  to  creep  into  a  heathen's  palace  to  help  a 
maid  to  elope,  and  for  the  maid  to  refuse  to  come,  would 
cast  a  slur  on  my  idea  of  chivalry  and  romance  such  as 
I  could  never  forget.  I  was  immensely  relieved  when 
I  noticed  Fae  Fae  stoop  and  start  shuffling  about  her 
chamber  floor.  She  was  hastily  gathering  together  her 
spare  clothing! 

"  Awaie !  Messieurs !  "  she  cried  softly.  Then  she 
held  up  a  small  bundle,  and  blushed  through  the  bright- 
ness of  her  eyes.  Gallantly  I  leaned  forward  and  clutched 
those  delicate  garments  that  made  up  Fae  Fae's  trous- 
seau! As  for  O'Hara,  he  grinned  and  then  stared  in 
surprise,  as  he  observed  my  correct  manner  when  I 
bowed  and  offered  Fae  Fae  my  arm.  (He  hadn't  read 
Alexandre  Dumas,  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats,  and  slept 
with  his  dreaming  head  on  a  volume  of  Don  Quixote.} 

Suddenly  a  door  banged  somewhere  across  the  palace 
courtyard ;  we  distinctly  heard  distant  sounds  of  laughter 
and  indistinct  voices.  Then  silence  came;  the  door  had 
been  closed  again. 

"  Come  on,  there's  no  time  to  lose,"  I  whispered,  as 
I  clutched  the  pretty  sandals  that  Fae  Fae  hurriedly 
picked  up  from  beneath  her  bamboo  couch.  Down  the 
corridor  we  crept.  As  Fae  Fae  caught  hold  of  my  hand 
I  returned  the  gentle  pressures  of  that  frightened  Tahi- 
tian  maid.  I  gathered  that  she  did  not  realize  the  serious- 
ness of  the  business.  As  we  stole  along,  a  puff  of  wind 
came  down  the  narrow  corridor,  and  her  mass  of  un- 
kempt hair  floated  softly  against  my  face.  I  felt  as 
though  some  beautiful  creation  of  romance  had  material- 
ized before  my  eyes,  as  a  silken  tress  touched  my  lips. 
Oily  O'Hara's  heavy  breathing,  as  he  led  the  way,  and 


128  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

Fae  Fae's  frightened  gasps,  made  me  realize  that  the 
whole  business  was  real  enough.  We  all  gave  a  deep  sigh 
of  relief  as  we  stole  out  into  the  night.  A  mighty  alarm 
had  seemed  to  thunder  down  the  silence  of  that  palace 
corridor.  Then  O'Hara  informed  me  that  he  had  missed 
the  track  whereby  we  had  entered  the  palace.  It  was 
unfortunate,  for  it  necessitated  our  all  climbing  over  a 
huge  wooden  wall  that  ran  along  the  south  side  of  the 
track  that  led  to  the  entrance  of  the  palace  stockade. 

"  Come  along,  Fae  Fae,"  said  I  cheerfully,  as  the  cool 
air  of  the  moonlit  night  and  the  glory  of  physical  move- 
ment raised  my  spirits.  O'Hara  clambered  up  to  the 
top  of  the  wall  first;  releasing  Fae  Fae's  trembling  hand, 
I  followed.  It  was  not  hard  climbing,  for  the  huge, 
upright  logs  were  thickly  overgrown  with  tough  vine. 
"  Look  out !  "  said  I,  as  I  stood  in  that  elevated  posi- 
tion and  nearly  stumbled.  Squatting  side  by  side  up 
there,  we  looked  down.  Fae  Fae  stared  up  at  us;  she 
was  half  hidden  in  the  forest  ferns.  O'Hara  and  I 
clasped  each  other's  hand  to  get  a  better  grip,  then,  bend- 
ing down,  we  very  carefully  gripped  hold  of  Fae  Fae's 
extended  hands  and  slowly  hauled  her  up  to  the  top  of 
the  wall. 

"Oh,  Messieurs,  it's  tellible!"  murmured  the  fright- 
ened girl  as  she  stood  high  up  there  beside  us.  She 
shivered  as  she  put  forth  her  arms  in  fright  to  retain 
her  balance.  Her  tiny,  blue  diaphanous  robe  was  out- 
blown  as  the  night  wind  sighed  across  the  forest  height. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  Miss  Faey,"  I  murmured,  as 
the  girl  swayed  in  terror,  pressed  my  hand,  and  looked 
appealingly  into  my  eyes  as  we  stood  up  there. 

O'Hara  and  I  gripped  her  carefully  by  the  arms, 
swayed  her  to  and  fro  in  space  for  a  second,  then  dropped 
her  softly  down  into  the  mossy  growth  and  fern  of  the 
forest  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall. 


ABDUCTION  OF  A  PRINCESS        129 

"Awaie!"  she  cried,  as  she  looked  up  at  us. 

Then  my  comrade  and  I  slid  gently  down,  like  threaded 
spiders,  into  the  mossy  scrub. 

For  a  moment  we  stood  breathless,  as  Fae  Fae  clung 
to  our  arms,  trembling  in  fear.  To  the  right  lay  the 
main  track;  once  across  that,  we  could  bolt  into  the 
forest  depth,  where  we  would  be  safe.  I  awaited 
O'Hara's  signal.  I  was  taking  no  risks.  O'Hara  knew 
the  place  too. 

Suddenly  my  comrade  said,  "  Now !  "  and  off  we  went, 
rushing  like  three  phantoms  across  the  exposed  moonlit 
track. 

"  Holy  St.  Patrick !  "  breathed  my  chum,  as  we  stood 
behind  the  thick  clump  of  bananas  that  divided  us  from 
the  twelve  yards  that  we  must  yet  pass  ere  we  were  out 
of  sight  of  the  main  entrance  to  the  palace. 

We  were  suddenly  paralyzed  by  hearing  a  terrific  yell. 
We  had  been  observed!  That  yell  smashed  to  atoms 
all  my  indecision  as  to  what  was  best  to  do.  Metaphor- 
ically speaking,  it  arrayed  me  in  armour,  equipped  me 
with  all  the  necessary  weapons  to  fight  a  desperate  battle 
for  life  and  for  the  protection  of  the  trembling  girl  be- 
side me. 

I  looked  down  the  track:  out  of  the  main  entrance 
had  rushed  three  stalwart  Tahitian  chiefs.  They  were 
quivering  with  excitement.  We  remained  standing  still. 
I  felt  strangely  calm. 

"  We're  in  for  it  now,"  said  I. 

O'Hara  shook  his  fist  and  picked  up  a  large  stone. 
A  glorious  feeling  of  exultation  thrilled  me  at  the 
thought  of  the  coming  race  for  life.  It  was  just  in  my 
line,  whereas  creeping  on  my  hands  and  knees  down  a 
corridor  was  dead  against  the  grain. 

Fae  Fae  gave  a  faint  cry.  It  roused  us.  Simul- 
taneously we  dashed  away  into  the  depths  of  the  bread- 


130  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

fruits  and  coco-palms.  What  a  sight! — Fae  Fae,  bare- 
footed, encumbered  only  by  her  pretty  native  mumu 
(chemise)  of  scanty  width,  raced  ahead,  as  O'Hara  and 
I,  our  arms  held  high  in  racing  attitude,  puffed  on 
behind ! 

"Follow  her,  pal;  she  knows  the  way,"  murmured 
O'Hara,  as  Fae  Fae's  dusky  flying  heels  glittered  in 
the  moonlight  about  twelve  yards  ahead  of  us !  Though 
I  admired  that  impulsive  Irish  comrade  of  mine,  I  in- 
wardly thought  what  an  ass  he  was;  for,  though  our 
pursuers  were  hard  on  our  heels,  I  distinctly  heard  him 
chuckling  to  himself,  making  ecstatic  remarks  about 
Fae  Fae's  swaying  figure  as  she  fled  down  the  forest 
track!  I  turned  my  head  to  see  how  it  went  with  the 
enemy.  I  was  extremely  disconcerted  at  observing  them 
coming  up  over  the  ridge  of  the  rising  ground,  quite  dis- 
tinct in  the  brilliant  moonlight.  A  giant  of  a  fellow 
was  gaining  ground,  was  far  ahead  of  the  other  pursuers. 

"Wait!"  I  shouted  in  O'Hara's  ear.  "We  must 
frighten  them  somehow."  I  knew,  well  enough,  that 
we  were  in  the  wrong,  that  we  could  be  legally  charged 
with  a  serious,  very  serious  offence.  I  felt  some  sad, 
prophetic  pain  of  a  club  falling  on  my  romantic  skull 
and  my  head  tumbling  into  the  official  guillotine  basket. 
This  sudden  visualizing  freak  of  my  imagination  was 
made  the  more  viKnd  through  my  seeing  Fae  Fae  racing 
along  the  track  like  some  frightened  child  (she  was 
little  more  than  a  child  in  mind),  as  I  lumbered  on 
behind  her,  clutching  her  delicate  trousseau  under  my 
arm.  Indeed  I  felt  the  guiltiest  of  the  three.  Fae  Fae 
was  a  child  of  the  forest;  O'Hara  was  another  child, 
since  he  was  madly  in  love;  while  I? — well,  instead  of 
giving  wise  counsel,  I  was  there,  an  accessory  before 
and  after  the  fact,  and  with  the  maid's  scanty  wardrobe 
under  my  arm!  Preposterous! 


ABDUCTION  OF  A  PRINCESS        131 

"Go  on;  never  mind  me,"  said  I,  when  O'Hara 
suddenly  stopped  dead  short.  There,  on  the  track,  I 
held  up  my  revolver  and  fired  over  the  head  of  the 
mop-headed  savage  who  was  a  hundred  yards  ahead 
of  the  others.  They  slowed  down.  I  saw  the  leader 
wave  his  hand,  and  heard  him  yell  out  some  words  in 
his  native  lingo,  something  that  ended  with  the  words 
"Fae  Fae!" 

On  hearing  that  name,  O'Hara  gasped  out : 

"  Why,  it's  him,  that  damned  Tautoa,  who  wants  to 
marry  my  Faey !  " 

It  was  with  immense  relief  that  I  noticed  that  the 
pursuers  had  slowed  down  and  were  apparently  fright- 
ened at  discovering  that  I  was  armed.  We  couldn't  out- 
run Fae  Fae.  O'Hara  and  I  had  all  we  could  do  to 
catch  up  to  her  as  she  still  raced  on,  speeding  round  the 
curves  of  the  forest  track.  Indeed  at  times  we  could 
not  see  her  at  all,  knowing  that  she  preceded  us  only 
because  of  the  tiny,  smoke-like  clouds  of  dust  that  we 
raced  through,  the  diamond-like  powder  that  her  bare, 
flying  feet  stirred  and  left  behind  as  she  raced  along  the 
track.  Sometimes  the  path  wound  into  the  full  light  of 
the  moon;  it  was  then  that  we  sighted  Fae  Fae's  flying 
figure  and  floating  hair  as  we  thundered  along  behind 
her.  I  am  sure  the  scene  must  have  looked  like  some 
burlesque  or  the  rehearsal  for  a  cinematograph  picture. 
As  we  passed  the  deep  lagoons  by  the  shore,  weird 
shadows  whipped  across  the  imaged,  broken  moons  that 
were  shining  in  the  still,  glassy  depths!  For,  as  the  fire- 
flies danced  in  the  leafy  bamboo  glooms,  I  saw  Fae  Fae's 
image,  with  flying  hair,  race  across  the  lagoon's  surface 
to  the  right  of  us,  though  she,  herself,  had  passed  round 
the  bend  and  was  quite  out  of  sight !  To  the  southward 
stretched,  for  miles  and  miles,  the  palm-clad  slopes.  It 
seemed  as  if  wt  were  racing  across  a  vast  landscape  oil- 


132  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

painting!  To  the  north-west  rose  the  pinnacled  range 
of  La  Diademe.  We  had  reached  the  Broome  Road. 
As  we  raced  across  it  we  just  missed  a  crowd  of  hurry- 
ing Chinamen  who  worked  in  the  cool  of  night  in  the 
plantations  of  vanilla,  coffee,  sugar-cane,  and  orange 
groves. 

"  Hon  kong  ching  chi  chow  kow !  "  yelled  a  straggler, 
as  his  pig-tail  tossed  up,  and  he  fell  sprawling  in  the 
dust. 

"  One  for  his  napper ! "  breathed  O'Hara,  as  he  re- 
covered his  balance  and  we  rushed  across  the  plantation. 
We  were  safe!  There  stood  Tapee's  bungalow  to  the 
left  of  us.  All  would  have  gone  well  had  not  O'Hara 
stumbled  as  he  leapt  across  the  stream.  He  gave  a  yell 
of  pain,  and  fell  crash  on  his  face. 

Fae  Fae  gave  a  cry.  Then  she  and  I,  breathing  heavily, 
picked  our  comrade  up.  He  groaned  as  I  examined  him. 
I  was  relieved  to  find  that  he  had  done  no  more  than 
sprain  his  ankle.  At  this  moment  a  figure  emerged 
from  the  shadows — it  was  Tapee. 

"You  all  right ?— where's  Fae  Fae?"  said  the  old 
man,  as  he  peered  into  the  jungle  depths  around  us. 
Fae  Fae,  who  was  hiding  behind  the  dwarf  coco-palms, 
heard  Tapee's  voice,  and  revealed  herself.  On  sighting 
the  girl,  the  old  idol-worshipper  grinned  from  ear  to  ear. 

"  You  clever  wahine  to  run  way  from  palace  with  kind 
white  mans." 

It  appeared  that  O'Hara  had  acquainted  the  chief 
that  he  was  going  to  get  Fae  Fae  to  elope  with  him 
from  the  palace  that  night.  Tapee  was  delighted  to  be 
of  assistance  to  O'Hara,  for  he  had  some  grudge  against 
Tautoa,  the  chief  who  was  to  marry  Fae  Fae.  He  was 
also  pleased  to  annoy  Pomare,  who  had  refused  to  allow 
Tapee  to  attend  the  palace  festivities. 

When  I   informed   Tapee  that  the  gendarmes   were 


ABDUCTION  OF  A  PRINCESS        133 

already  on  our  track,  he  simply  rubbed  his  hands  and 
grinned  as  though  the  trouble  was  over.  Seeing  O'Hara 
standing  on  one  leg  and  holding  the  other  off  the  ground, 
Tapee  and  I  escorted  him  into  the  bungalow  hard  by. 
He  groaned  as  we  laid  him  down  on  the  bed  mats. 
On  pulling  off  his  boot  I  saw  that  he  was  quite  out  of 
action  so  far  as  walking  was  concerned — his  ankle  was 
swollen  to  the  size  of  an  orange,  a  lump  on  the  off-side. 

Fae  Fae,  noticing  the  injury,  gave  a  wail  of  despair. 
Then  Tapee,  to  my  surprise,  looked  up  and  said: 

"  Oh,  Messieurs,  what  shall  we  do?  The  popy  priest 
am  waiting  to  marry  Fae  Fae  and  Papalagi  O'Hara  all 
this  whiles  down  in  Papeete." 

This  was  the  first  intimation  I  had  received  that 
O'Hara  had  made  the  necessary  preparations  to  have  a 
Christian  marriage  with  Fae  Fae.  It  was  just  like 
him,  for,  notwithstanding  his  being  a  scallawag,  he  was 
ever  ready  to  do  the  right  thing  at  the  right 
moment. 

"  Go,  quick,  and  let  the  priest  know  that  the  marriage 
is  put  off  till  another  night,"  moaned  O'Hara.  And  so 
Tapee  went  off  to  postpone  the  wedding.  Fae  Fae  lifted 
her  hands  to  the  roof  and  wailed  out,  "  Saprista!  Aloe, 
tua  "  and  "  Mon  Dieu !  "  (Fae  Fae  spoke  broken  French 
as  well  as  English).  I  was  more  than  glad  to  see  that 
wedding  postponed.  I  felt  it  was  quite  enough  for  one 
night's  work  to  abduct  the  maid  in  readiness  for  the 
wedding,  and,  moreover,  Fae  Fae  was  trembling  like 
a  leaf  and  appeared  very  neurotic.  She  was  a  very 
high-strung  girl.  Indeed  I  saw  how  artful-hearted  Tapee 
had  played  with  ease  on  the  girl's  romantic,  sensitive 
temperament. 

When  Tapee  returned,  about  half  an  hour  after,  he 
at  once  prepared  supper.  We  were  all  famished.  We 
closed  the  door  and  bolted  it.  Tapee  said  that  on  his 


134  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

way  back  after  seeing  the  priest,  he  had  heard  a  lot 
of  French  officials  discussing  Fae  Fae's  disappearance 
from  the  palace.  O'Hara  groaned  and  Fae  Fae  wept, 
while  I  moodily  ate  mangoes  and  stewed,  juicy  fruits, 
and  wondered  what  my  relatives  would  think  when  they 
heard  that  I  had  been  hanged  for  abducting  maidens 
in  the  South  Seas!  We  passed  a  most  wretched  night. 
I  dozed  off  once,  and  dreamed  that  the  world  was  a  vast 
guillotine,  with  me  sitting  in  its  receiving-basket  as  Time, 
and  all  the  stars  danced  sorrowfully  around  me,  ere  the 
blade  fell  and  severed  my  connection  with  mundane 
things.  When  I  awoke,  O'Hara  was  looking  very  ill; 
but  he  gave  a  faint  smile  as  Fae  Fae  held  his  head  and 
passed  her  fingers  through  his  curly  hair.  At  daybreak 
Tapee  went  out  and  hired  a  kind  of  char-a-banc  owned 
by  a  wizened  Chinaman.  We  took  the  Chinaman  into 
our  confidence,  gave  him  a  good  tip,  and  promised  him 
a  lot  more  than  we  could  ever  give  him.  To  tell  the 
truth,  if  a  Chinaman  gives  one  his  word  of  honour, 
he  seldom  breaks  it.  I'd  sooner  trust  a  Chinaman  than 
many  pious  people  whom  I've  unfortunately  met.  When 
we  got  into  that  wagon  the  bottom  nearly  dropped  out. 
It  was  old  and  rotten.  The  horse  was  an  object  for 
pity;  it  moved  at  a  mile  an  hour,  and  the  angles  of  its 
bones  looked  decidedly  like  the  angles  of  the  guillotine. 
We  crouched  in  the  bottom  of  the  cart,  safe  from  the 
vigilant  eyes  of  the  officials  who  were  on  the  look-out 
for  us.  When  we  arrived  in  the  Chinese  quarter  of 
Papeete,  I  hired  a  room  in  a  fan-tan  den,  and  O'Hara 
helped  me  to  put  up  a  bed.  When  all  was  comfortable, 
O'Hara  fell  asleep,  and  I  crept  out  into  the  forest  and 
went  back  to  Tapee's  bungalow.  When  I  arrived  there, 
Fae  Fae  was  weeping  bitterly.  I  saw  that  she  had 
become  sane,  and  regretted  her  flight  from  the  palace. 
She  was  evidently  terrified  in  her  reflection  over  the 


punishment  she  would  receive  from  the  Queen's  hands.  I 
tried  my  best  to  soothe  her. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur,  I  so  unhappy.  Poor  Monsieur  Ilisham 
hurt  himself  too.  I  feel  lone,  and  Queen  Pomare  find 
me  out  and  punish  me,  I  know,  I  know!"  she 
wailed. 

"  Don't  worry,  Fae  Fae,"  said  I  soothingly,  as  she 
gave  me  a  tender,  sympathetic  glance.  I  saw  the  tears 
in  her  eyes  as  she  stared  up  at  me  through  her  dishevelled 
tresses.  Ah,  beautiful  hair  it  was!  The  room  was  dimly 
lit  by  the  latticed  window-hole.  She  did  look  a  plaintive 
creature  as  she  sat  there  swaying  in  her  grief.  I  smelt 
the  sweet  odours  of  the  languishing  flowers  that  still 
dangled,  clinging  among  her  scented  tresses,  when  she 
placed  her  hand  caressingly  on  my  shoulder,  and  mur- 
mured : 

"  Oh,  take  me  back  to  palace,  Monsieur." 

We  were  close  together,  her  eyes  gazing  beseechingly 
into  mine.  Her  smooth  brow,  bright  in  the  glory  of 
her  vanilla-scented  hair,  was  near  my  lips.  God  knows 
that  I  would  not  betray  the  trust  reposed  in  me  by  a 
good  comrade;  but  I  have  my  weaknesses.  Her  hand 
pressed  mine.  I  somehow  tripped  forward,  and,  in  some 
inexplicable  entanglement  of  the  senses,  my  lips  touched 
hers.  Ah  me!  She  gazed  deeply  into  my  eyes.  In  a 
moment  I  realized  what  I  had  done.  I  hung  my  head 
as  she  gazed  on,  and  then,  to  my  astonishment,  she 
swiftly  lifted  my  hand  and  kissed  it  passionately.  I 
thought  of  O'Hara,  probably  asleep  on  his  bed  mat  and 
of  the  implicit  trust  he  reposed  in  me.  I  made  a  tre- 
mendous effort  so  that  my  outward  demeanour  should 
have  no  twinship  with  the  turmoil  of  conflicting  thoughts 
within  me.  Inclining  my  head  affectionately,  but  at  the 
same  time  forcing  a  melancholy,  sober  aspect  to  my 
blushing  visage,  I  managed  to  blurt  out: 


136  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

*'  Oh,  Fae  Fae,  child,  my  heart  is  heavy  in  the  thoughts 
of  your  sorrows.  I  don't  know  how  to  advise  you !  " 

It  was  a  near  go,  I  know.  Indeed,  had  I  partaken  a 
little  more  liberally  of  the  toddy  that  Tapee  had  given 
me  from  his  huge  flask,  my  memory  of  the  whole  business 
would  not  have  made  such  pleasant  reading,  I  feel  sure 
of  that.  Sober  reflections  made  me  realize  that,  under 
the  circumstance,  the  best  thing  for  the  girl  to  do  would 
be  to  go  back  to  the  palace.  I  fully  realized  the  clumsy 
way  we  had  conducted  ourselves  and  the  seriousness  of 
the  gendarmes  being  on  our  tracks. 

At  this  moment  Tapee  opened  the  door  and  walked 
in.  I  was  relieved  by  his  presence,  but,  to  my  con- 
sternation, Fae  Fae's  attitude  towards  me  remained 
the  same !  Kissing  the  girl  again,  as  though  she  were  a 
child,  I  looked  her  straight  in  the  eyes,  and  said : 

"I  must  get  away  and  see  O'Hara;  it  is  unsafe  for 
me  to  stop  here." 

The  girl  responded  to  this  only  by  falling  on  her 
knees  before  me. 

"  Oh,  Monsieur,  stay !  stay ! "  she  cried  in  a  plaintive 
voice. 

It  was  then  I  noticed  the  wild,  strange  stare  of  her 
eyes.  I  gave  Tapee  an  interrogative  glance.  He  touched 
his  brow  significantly.  I  did  not  quite  comprehend 
his  meaning  at  the  time,  but  subsequent  events  soon 
enlightened  me  as  to  the  state  of  Fae  Fae's  mind. 
Promising  Tapee  and  the  girl  that  I  would  return  soon, 
I  hastened  from  their  presence  and  went  back  to  O'Hara. 
He  was  awake  and  in  great  pain  when  I  arrived  at  our 
diggings.  I  sat  with  him  till  dusk,  and  all  through  the 
night  poured  cold  water  on  his  sprained  ankle. 

I  well  knew  that  while  he  was  lame  we  had  little 
chance  of  clearing  away,  if  the  gendarmes  heard  of  our 
whereabouts. 


ABDUCTION  OF  A  PRINCESS        137 

Once  again,  at  O'Hara's  request,  I  went  off  to  see  how 
Fae  Fae  was.  Arriving  at  Tapee's  bungalow  I  found 
him  trembling  and  muttering  in  a  strange  way. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  I  said. 

"Oh,  Masser,  she  gone!  She  run  away  in  night;  she 
go  kill  herself,  I  sure!  " 

After  the  old  fellow  had  rambled  on  a  good  deal,  I 
gathered  that  he  had  awakened  at  daybreak,  and, 
discovering  that  Fae  Fae  had  flown,  had  spent  the 
morning  in  searching  likely  places  where  she  might  have 
hidden  herself.  I  at  once  got  Tapee  to  send  a  trusted 
native  friend  up  to  the  palace  to  find  out  if  Fae  Fae  had 
returned  home.  After  a  while  the  native  came  back 
full  of  excitement,  and  informed  us  that  the  Queen  and 
her  retinue  of  chiefs  had  gone  off  to  the  French  Presi- 
dency to  inform  the  officials  that  Princess  Fae  Fae  had 
been  abducted  from  the  palace  by  two  white  men.  That 
bit  of  information  seemed  to  waken  me  up.  I  left  Tapee 
at  once. 

"  It's  no  good  using  language  like  that,"  I  said,  chid- 
ingly  to  O'Hara,  as  I  rubbed  his  ankle  with  coco-nut 
oil. 

By  the  next  day  he  could  just  manage  to  limp  along. 
He  was  determined  to  search  for  Fae  Fae,  though  I  had 
tried  to  persuade  him  to  do  otherwise.  That  same  day 
he  seemed  very  depressed  as  he  sat  under  the  palms 
singing  to  me.  (He  always  sang  when  he  was  feeling 
melancholy.) 

"  She'll  do  herself  some  injury,"  he  said. 

"  She'll  turn  up,"  I  said  soothingly,  though  I  must 
admit  I  felt  dubious  about  it  all.  I  thought  of  the  girl's 
strange  manner,  how  she  had  danced  round  that  idol; 
I  was  convinced  that  she  was  no  ordinary  girl. 

That  same  evening  we  walked  into  the  forest  near 
Katavio.  We  were  intending  to  meet  Tapee,  who  had 


138  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

informed  us  that  he  would  be  in  his  old  hut  in  that  part 
of  the  forest  where  his  idol  was  hidden. 

I  tried  to  cheer  O'Hara  up  as  we  passed  under  the 
arch-like  banyans  that  grew  on  the  outskirts  of  the 
wooded  country.  Then  we  sat  down  by  the  lagoons 
till  darkness  came.  Suddenly  we  were  startled  by 
hearing  far-off  sounds  like  the  singing  of  a  woman's 
beautiful  voice.  I  jumped  to  my  feet.  There  was  some- 
thing eerie  about  the  night  as  we  listened.  Then  it  came 
again,  the  long,  low,  sweet  refrain  of  an  old-time 
Tahitian  himine.  Bucking  up  our  courage  we  stole 
forward,  making  for  the  direction  where  the  singing 
came  from.  Even  the  winds  seemed  hushed,  not  a  sound 
disturbing  the  silence  of  the  forest.  It  seemed  as  if 
O'Hara  and  I  walked  a  stage  whereon  some  thrilling 
South  Sea  drama  was  being  enacted ;  the  tall  trees  looked 
unreal,  even  the  wide  roof  over  us  might  have  been  some 
tremendous  dark  canvas  bespangled  with  stars.  The 
weird,  flute-like  cadenza  of  the  nightingale  up  in  the 
branches  of  the  flamboyants  did  not  destroy  the  unreal 
effect  as  it  flew  off. 

"  This  way,"  I  whispered,  as  my  comrade  limped 
along. 

We  were  standing  on  the  wooded  elevation  just  before 
the  spot  where  we  had  first  caught  Tapee  worshipping 
his  wooden  image.  Moonrise,  somewhere  to  the  south- 
ward, behind  the  mountains,  was  sending  a  pale  brilliance 
over  the  rugged  landscape.  That  weird  singer  of  the 
forest,  or  whatever  it  was,  had  ceased  to  sing.  Then  it 
came  again,  a  weird,  tender  wailing!  O'Hara' s  big 
form  was  leaning  against  mine  when  the  surprise  came : 
staring  there  between  the  tree  runks,  we  saw  the  old 
idol  again  and,  careering  around  that  hideous  wooden 
deity,  that  which  looked  like  a  phantom  girl  of  the 
woods!  I  had  travelled  the  world  over  and  seen  some 


ABDUCTION  OF  A  PRINCESS        139 

stange  things,  but  had  never  seen  so  weird  a  sight  before. 

"  It's  Fae  Fae,"  said  O'Hara,  as  he  stumbled  on  his 
sprained  ankle. 

"  Impossible !  "  I  responded  in  a  mechanical  way. 

"  She's  dead,  and  has  come  back  to  dance  where  she 
first  met  me ! "  re-wailed  my  love-sick  Irish  comrade. 

The  girl  did  look  misty !  I  looked  and  wondered,  not- 
withstanding my  cynicism  over  such  things  as  ghosts. 
I  felt  that  perhaps  it  was  Fae  Fae's  ghost  dancing  before 
us!  I  had  read  of  such  things,  and  had  met  old  women 
who  swore  they  had  seen  the  dead  doing  strange,  unac- 
countable things. 

We  both  stood  still,  strangely  calm,  as  the  girl  whirled 
and  sang  in  her  wild  career,  her  diaphanous  robe  flutter- 
ing out  to  the  breeze  or  clinging  closely  to  her  misty-like 
figure.  Then  she  lifted  her  arms  and  moved  towards 
us,  her  eyes  wide  open,  apparently  staring  into  vacancy. 
The  flowers  in  her  unkempt  hair,  all  crumpled,  gave 
the  one  touch  that  told  of  something  real.  It  was 
evident  that  she  had  not  observed  us,  for  in  another 
moment  she  was  again  whirling  around  the  space, 
chanting  to  the  deaf,  wooden  ears  of  the  massive  idol. 
As  she  passed  by  us  she  came  so  close  that  I  felt  the 
rush  of  cool  air  caused  by  her  swift  movements.  Though 
her  figure  looked  ghost-like,  I  was  still  extremely  scepti- 
cal. I  knew  that  mortality,  when  transformed  into  that 
blessed  spiritual  state  that  is  supposed  to  follow  death, 
must  of  a  necessity  be  unable  to  create  any  impression 
through  coming  into  contact  with  the  material  elements 
of  mortality.  Indeed,  I  knew  that  singing  itself  was  an 
impossibility,  since  it  necessitated  an  inflection  and  per- 
fect contraction  in  the  throat  of  the  singer.  I  resolved 
to  seize  the  first  opportunity  to  substantiate  my  human 
suspicions  as  to  the  possibility  of  the  figure  before  us 
being  a  transfiguration  of  her  whom  we  had  once  known 


140  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

in  mortal  shape  as  Fae  Fae.  The  opportunity  presented 
itself  forthwith.  Fae  Fae's  apparent  wraith,  with  arms 
outspread,  the  body  swerving  with  rhythmical  beauty, 
was  still  flitting  noiselessly  round  the  small  space,  com- 
ing toward  us ! 

"  Keep  back ! "  I  whispered  to  O'Hara,  who  was 
staring  over  my  shoulder,  endeavouring  to  get  a  better 
glimpse  of  the  figure.  On  she  came,  seemingly  draped 
in  veils  of  the  moonlight  that  was  falling  through  the 
overspreading,  dark-fingered  palm-leaves.  Her  lips  had 
begun  a  chant,  her  head  turned  slightly  sideways  as 
on  her  tripping  flight  she  approached  and  stared  at  the 
mighty,  yellow-toothed,  wooden  deity.  In  a  moment 
she  was  upon  us.  I  swiftly  thrust  forth  my  hand  as  she 
flitted  past. 

"A  phantom!"  I  gasped,  as  my  fist  passed  right 
through  the  folds  of  her  attire  and  then  seemingly 
through  her  form!  For  a  moment  I  could  only  stare. 
A  vulture  screeched  high  in  the  banyans.  O'Hara 
crossed  himself  and  murmured  a  portion  of  some  Ave 
Maria,  terror-struck.  "Impossible!  preposterous!" 
thought  I  to  myself.  Then  I  remembered  how  I  had 
distinctly  felt  the  material  of  her  robes  appeal  to  my 
sense  of  touch  as  my  fist  apparently  went  through  her 
figure;  yes,  something  real  and  material  was  there.  I 
had  simply  missed  touching  her  solid  figure;  that  was  it, 
I  felt  sure.  "O'Hara,"  I  whispered,  and  my  voice 
sounded  cracked  as  I  muttered,  "it's  no  ghost;  it's  her, 
Fae  Fae,  right  enough.  She's  mad,  out  of  her  mind !  " 

"  No !  Mad !  "  groaned  O'Hara,  as  he  jumped  down 
from  the  banyan  bough  where  he  had  leapt  in  fright, 
and  peered  between  the  breadfruit  trunks.  I  tried 
hard  to  hold  him  back  as  he  rushed  forward;  but  it 
was  too  late — a  piece  of  his  ragged  coat  came  off  in  my 
hand! 


ABDUCTION  OF  A  PRINCESS        141 

Fae  Fae  gave  a  terrified  scream  as  she  spied  him. 

"  It's  me !  your  O'Hara,  darlint !  "  yelled  my  comrade, 
as  the  girl,  turning  round,  stared  at  him  in  a  wild,  vacant 
way.  Then,  with  a  frightened  scream  that  thrilled  us 
with  horror,  she  fled  away  into  the  depths  of  the 
forest. 

I  also  rushed  off,  following  O'Hara,  who  bolted  after 
her.  He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  tripped  and  fell  with 
a  crash.  He  gave  a  groan  as  he  held  up  his  afflicted 
foot.  I  at  once  came  to  a  standstill.  I  was  not  in  the 
mood  to  go  chasing  after  a  mad  native  girl.  Besides, 
I  had  had  about  sufficient  of  O'Hara's  love  affairs. 
O'Hara  was  inconsolable  that  night.  At  daybreak  we 
were  up  and  ready  to  go  forth  in  an  endeavour  to  hear 
something  about  Fae  Fae.  Indeed,  O'Hara  seemed 
more  determined  than  ever  to  find  her.  We  had  at  first 
intended  to  go  and  see  Tapee;  but  Tapee  saved  us  that 
trouble  by  suddenly  walking  into  our  apartments.  Be- 
fore we  could  get  a  chance  to  tell  the  old  chief  of  our 
adventure  with  Fae  Fae,  he  had  started  gabbling  like  one 
demented. 

"  Fae  Fae,  she  go  mad !  and,  O  Papalagi,  that 
Tautoa,  her  lover,  he  have  found  her  crying  in  the  night 
in  the  forest,  all  'lone,"  said  the  old  dark  man. 

"  No !  "  we  both  exclaimed  in  one  breath. 

"  Ah,  yes,  Messieurs,  it  all-e-samee  true.  Fae  Fae  am 
now  back  in  palace,  they  got  her  now,  and  Queen  Pomare 
am  in  terrible  rage  with  white  mans.  I  knower  that  she 
am  going  to  send  gendarmes  after  you  and  Monsieur 
O'Hara." 

The  way  O'Hara  raved  and  carried  on  is  indescribable. 
He  got  quite  drunk  before  midday.  Then  we  were 
obliged  to  fly  from  our  lodgings  and  hide  away  under 
Tapee's  protection.  For,  sure  enough,  a  warrant  was 
really  out  for  both  O'Hara  and  myself  for  trespass  and 


142  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

the  abduction  of   Fae  Fae,  who   from  childhood  had 
suffered  from  mental  affliction ! 

It  was  Tapee  who  gave  us  this  last  bit  of  information. 
As  the  old  chief  crept  into  the  disused  native  hut  and, 
squatting  down  by  us,  told  us  these  things,  much  became 
clear  to  me.  I  recalled  many  things  about  Fae  Fae's 
manner,  which,  though  fascinating  and  romantic,  seemed 
out  of  the  normal  even  in  a  native  maid.  We  hid  in 
that  hut  for  three  days,  safe  from  the  French  officials; 
but  I  felt  pretty  gloomy  as  I  thought  of  the  prospect 
of  our  getting  three  years  in  the  island  calaboose.  I  gave 
out  no  hint  of  my  qualms  to  O'Hara,  but  I  well  knew 
that  there  was  a  good  chance  of  both  of  us  being  trans- 
ported to  the  convict  settlement  at  ///  Nou,  Noumea! 
The  following  night,  however,  we  secured  an  old  canoe, 
through  the  help  of  Tapee,  and  paddled  round  to 
Matavai  Bay,  where  we  heard  that  a  tramp  steamer 
was  anchored. 

And  the  next  day,  as  we  heard  the  tramping  far 
overhead  and  the  dull  pomp-e-te-pomp  of  engines,  we 
both  crept  forth,  moved  our  cramped,  huddled  limbs, 
and  groaned.  I  chewed  a  morsel  off  one  of  our  four 
coco-nuts.  Then  I  caught  a  shadowy  glimpse  of 
O'Hara's  sweating  black  face  as  he  took  a  drink  from  the 
water-bottle,  and  groped  with  his  hands  amongst  the 
tiers  of  coal  and  terrific  heat. 

"  Come  on,  this  way ! "  I  gasped,  as  I  crawled  along 
in  that  monstrous  tomb  where  we  found  ourselves  buried 
alive!  "That's  better!"  I  said,  as  I  felt  a  whiff  of 
purer  air  come  along  some  dark,  labyrinthine  way. 
O'Hara  sat  by  me  in  the  gloom,  groping  about  as  he 
carefully  replaced  the  water-bottle  and  coco-nut  in  my 
portmanteau  (an  old  green  baize  bag  that  I  always  car- 
ried when  I  travelled  incognito'}. 

Then  O'Hara  climbed  up  on  my  shoulders  and  peered 


ABDUCTION  OF  A  PRINCESS        143 

through  the  little  round  hole  just  above  our  heads. 
For  a  long  time  he  stared,  gazing  away  to  the  far  south- 
west horizon,  where  rose  the  rugged  pinnacles  of  La 
Diadem,  still  visible. 

"  We're  safe  enough  now.    They  won't  catch  us,  I'll 
bet,"  said  I. 

"  Ah,  my  darlint  Fae  Fae !  I'll  never  be  happy  again." 
"  Yes,  you  will,"  I  murmured  soothingly,  as  O'Hara 
still  gazed  through  that  dirty  coal-bunker's  glass  port- 
hole, staring  wistfully  so  as  to  get  the  last  glimpse,  as 
sunset  touched  the  mountain  palms  of  far-away  Tahiti ! 
We  were  stowaways  down  in  the  hold  of  a  tramp  steamer, 
far  out  at  sea,  outbound  for  Honolulu ! 


CHAPTER  VII.     THE  HEATHEN'S  GARDEN  OF 
EDEN 

Tangalora  the  Samoan  Scribe — Where  the  Gods  and 
Goddesses  first  met  in  Council — The  Materials  of  which 
the  first  Mortal  Children  were  Fashioned — The  first 
Wondering  Men — The  first  Women — How  the  first 
Babies  came  to  their  Mothers. 

IT  was  nearly  three  months  before  I  found  myself 
in  Samoa  again.  O'Hara  had  shipped  from  Hawaii 
for  the  Solomon  Isles,  and  I  had  signed  on  as  "  deck- 
hand "  on  a  fore-and-aft  schooner  that  was  bound  for 
Apia.  I  missed  the  society  of  my  Irish  comrade;  but 
we  met  long  after,  as  will  be  seen  in  the  last  chapters 
of  this  book.  However,  I  soon  made  another  friend, 
for  I  came  across  a  high  chief,  Tangalora,  who  was  an 
aged  Samoan.  I  came  to  value  his  friendship  greatly. 
He  dwelt  in  a  cave  on  the  shores  of  Savaii  Isle,  a  cave 
wherein  he  lived  in  primitive  comfort  and  seemed  happy 
enough.  He  was  one  of  the  last  of  the  wandering 
Samoan  scribes — men  who,  with  tappa  robe  flung  across 
the  left  shoulder,  wandered  from  village  to  village  in 
pursuit  of  their  romantic  calling.  These  scribes  would 
enter  the  small  pagan  villages  at  sunset,  take  their 
stand  on  the  village  forum-stump  (sometimes  a  tree 
trunk  or  a  heap  of  coral  stone  that  denoted  where  some 
mighty  warrior  or  poet  was  buried),  then,  lifting  one  arm 
towards  the  sky,  commence  to  pour  forth  in  dramatic 
fashion  their  own  versions  of  the  old  mythological  tales 
and  legends.  Such  a  scribe  was  Tangalora,  with  whom 
I  became  on  the  most  intimate  terms.  As  I  have  said, 

144 


HEATHEN'S  GARDEN  OF  EDEN   145 

Tangalora  was  a  very  old  man.  I  believe  he  was  nearly 
eighty  years  of  age.  Consequently,  he  was  unable  to 
travel  from  village  to  village  singing  his  romantic 
chants  and  legends  to  Samoan  maids  and  youths.  I 
found  him  a  most  agreeable  old  poet,  perfect  in  every 
way,  except  that  I  noticed  a  tinge  of  jealousy  arose 
whenever  I  spoke  of  his  contemporaries.  But  even  that 
very  human  failing  was  forgivable,  for  competition  was 
keen  among  the  poets  of  those  days,  and  I  myself  heard 
many  followers  of  the  Muse,  as  they  stood  on  those 
Parnassian  heathen  slopes,  cursing  tho  lying  tongue  of 
some  wandering  scribe  who  had  forestalled  them  by 
arriving  at  the  forum-stump  before  they  did.  How- 
ever, it's  not  my  wish  to  go  into  detail  over  Tangalora's 
failings ;  all  I  will  attempt  is  to  tell  from  my  own  impres- 
sions some  of  the  incidents  of  the  extempore  verse  which 
he  rattled  off  in  his  cavern  homestead.  I  must  first  say 
that  he  used  this  cavern  as  a  lecture  hall  as  well  as  a 
homestead,  charging  a  small  fee  to  the  native  men  and 
crowds  of  children  who  collected  outside  his  rocky  door 
at  sunset.  It  was  a  sight  worth  seeing  as  those  little 
native  children,  their  eyes  bright  with  mystery,  waited 
to  enter  the  cavern  and  hear  the  wonderful  old  wizard 
man,  Tangalora,  tell  of  the  mysteries  of  shadowland.  It 
was  such  a  sight  that  met  my  eyes  when  I  arrived  at  that 
cavern's  entrance,  as  eager  as  any  of  the  forest  children, 
I  am  sure. 

The  sun  was  setting  on  the  sea  skyline  and  the  shadows 
falling  over  the  mountains  as  Tangalora  sat  on  his  coral 
throne  at  the  far  end  of  his  weird-lit  cavern  hall.  He 
was  fully  decorated  with  all  the  insignia  of  his  office, 
wearing  his  tappa  robe,  and  with  his  ornamental  war- 
club  by  his  side,  as  he  sat  there  before  me. 

"  Talofa !  "  he  said,  and  all  the  children  responded : 

"  Talo fa,  O  Tangalora!" 


146  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

Then  he  said  that  which  translated  into  our  language 
would  run  in  this  wise : 

"Now  then,  fantoes  (children),  come  round  close  to 
me,  my  sight  is  dim;  sit  by  my  knees,  for  I  am  old." 

In  a  moment  the  tawny  children  of  the  south  were 
hustling  and  bustling  to  secure  their  favourite  position 
at  the  feet  of  the  aged  poet.  Placing  his  hand  to  his 
wrinkled  mouth,  he  coughed  twice,  as  he  always  did  ere 
he  commenced  to  tell  his  stories. 

"  Are  you  all  here  ?  "    His  voice  trembled  into  echoes. 

"  We  are  all  here !  "  cried  the  children,  as  they  crossed 
their  arms  and  legs  and  prepared  to  listen  attentively. 
Then  he  began  as  follows : 

"  Thousands  of  years  ago,  when  the  sun,  the  moon, 
and  the  stars  shone  in  the  sky  and  saw  no  one  alive 
on  the  isles  of  these  seas,  the  heathen  gods  were  walking 
across  the  wide  floors  of  Mbau.  Suddenly  Raitumaibulii, 
who  was  the  god  of  Fruit  and  Taro,  said :  *  I  say,  look 
at  that  great  ocean  shining  under  the  sun  down  there 
above  unpeopled,  palm-clad  isles.'  Then  the  god  con- 
tinued: *  Is  it  not  a  shame  that  all  those  beautiful  palms 
and  those  breadfruit  trees  of  mine  should  be  laden  with 
such  nice  fruit  and  yet  none  there  to  eat  of  it?'  'It 
really  does  seem  a  pity,'  replied  the  god  of  Fire;  and 
he  continued :  '  I  also  think  it  sad  that  none  can  light 
fires  in  those  deep  forests.  Look  how  comfortable  they 
would  feel  were  they  to  see  my  flames  brightly  shining 
beneath  the  palms  by  night.'  As  the  god  Raitumaibulii 
and  the  god  of  Fire  ceased  speaking  and  sighed  over 
their  thoughts,  the  beautiful  heathen  goddess  of  Mburoto 
(the  Paradise  of  Love  and  Bliss)  came  up  to  them  and 
said :  '  Ah !  I  have  just  heard  your  lament.  I  too  feel 
sad  to  think  that  there  are  no  handsome  youths  and 
maidens  in  those  beautiful  leafy  forests.'  As  the  two 
gods  listened  and  gazed  on  her  beauty,  she  lifted  her 


HEATHEN'S  GARDEN  OF  EDEN   147 

hands  and  lovely  eyes  towards  the  mountains  of 
Mburoto,  and  continued  in  this  wise :  '  Oh !  think  how 
pleased  the  moons  would  be  to  light  up  the  eyes  of  hand- 
some lovers  and  reveal  the  bronze-hued  faces  of  pretty 
maidens  if  they  roamed  those  now  silent  lands.'  It  was 
then  that  the  great  Thangi-Thangi,  the  god  of  Hate  and 
Sin,  stepped  forth.  He,  too,  looked  thoughtfully  down 
on  those  far-distant  beautiful  isles  and  murmured : 
'  What  a  waste,  what  a  waste  it  is,  when  I  think  how 
I  could  make  the  folk  of  a  world  to  hate  each  other  and 
deeply  sin.' 

"  The  goddess  of  Love,  who  was  listening  to  Thangi- 
Thangi,  said :  *  Look  here,  you  are  not  wanted  down 
there.  I  know  well  enough  that  if  you  had  anything  to 
do  with  the  making  of  the  folk  of  another  world,  they 
would  never  be  really  happy  folk.'  As  the  beautiful 
goddess  said  this,  her  daughter  came  forward.  She  had 
eyes  like  unto  fire,  and  a  serpent  was  nestling  at  her 
breast.  Gazing  up  into  the  face  of  the  goddess  of  Love, 
she  said :  '  I  am  Jealousy,  your  sinful  child ;  but  may  I 
help  you  to  make  the  new  folk  for  that  lovely  country, 
those  silent  isles  so  far  away,  down  there  ? ' 

"  For  a  long  time  the  goddess  of  Love  gazed  across  the 
terraced  mountains  of  Mbau.  As  she  reflected,  her 
hands  were  arched  over  her  eyes  that  shone  like  two 
lovely  moons  that  had  a  bright  star  in  their  centre. 
Slowly  turning,  she  gazed  sadly  into  her  daughter's  dark, 
fiery  eyes,  and  said  : 

'  I  suppose  you  must  come  and  help  me  when  I  am 
making  handsome  men  and  beautiful  women.  Of  course, 
I  shall  have  to  make  a  few  ugly  mortals,  so  that  the 
favoured  ones  may  see  that  they  are  handsome.'  Then 
the  goddess  sighed  and  said :  '  So  you  must  be  there  to 
kiss  their  lips,  that  they  may  have  the  spirit  to  look 
after  the  one  they  love.' 


148  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

"  After  the  gods  and  goddesses  of  Mbau  had  assembled 
in  solemn  council,  they  decided  that  it  would  be  best  to 
make  living  people  who  could  be  happy  on  the  isles 
situated  away  down  beneath  the  sun.  '  So  shall  it  be,' 
they  all  muttered,  as  they  stalked  across  the  magic 
mountains  of  Mburoto,  where  they  at  once  began  to 
gather  wonderful  flowers  and  weeds,  stones,  bits  of  fire, 
and  cloudy  skeins  of  moonlight  and  starlight.  For  it 
was  from  the  essential  materials  of  Paradise  that  they 
must  make  the  children  of  the  world  that  was  beneath 
the  sun. 

"  It  was  then  that  the  aged  goddess  of  Sorrow,  who 
had  stood  silently  behind,  said :  '  I  also  must  come  to 
help  you.' 

"  '  Must  you  come?'  said  the  goddess  of  Love.  And 
the  goddess  of  Sorrow  replied :  '  It  must  be  I  alone 
who  shall  gather  the  compassionate  cry  of  the  winds 
in  the  forest,  the  bundles  of  old  sunsets,  the  long-ago 
wail  of  blue  sea-waves,  and  the  songs  of  melancholy, 
small-throated  birds.' 

"  '  But  must  we  have  such  things?  Cannot  we  make 
children  without  your  help,  O  goddess  of  Sorrow?' 

"And  Sorrow  answered:  'However  beautiful  you 
made  the  children,  even  though  their  eyes  were  like 
unto  the  beauty  of  thine  own,  still  they  would  not  be 
happy  without  being  fashioned  of  those  things  that  I 
must  gather  from  the  graves  of  a  million  dead  moons.' 

"  '  So  shall  it  be/  said  the  goddess  of  Love,  as  she 
sighed  and  kissed  Sorrow's  tender,  trembling  hand. 

"  '  Now  then ! '  said  Atuaa,  the  chief  vassal  of  Ndengi. 
'Come  along!  Come  along!'  Then,  lo!  on  the  beams 
of  threaded  moonlight  that  were  falling  down  the 
heavens  of  shadowland  into  the  dark  regions  of  the 
other  world,  the  gods  and  goddesses  slid  softly  away, 
monstrous,  shadowy  figures  as  they  passed  down,  down 


HEATHEN'S  GARDEN  OF  EDEN   149 

through  the  deep  skies!  For  a  long  time  their  cloudy 
figures  seemed  to  be  falling.  At  last  they  stood,  mighty 
shadows  in  the  silent  forest  of  the  isles  far  to  the  west- 
ward. They  were  all  much  taller  than  the  trees,  their 
huge  heads  rising  far  above  the  forest  height,  as  their 
images  moved  across  the  sky.  It  was  the  god  of  Hate 
who  first  spoke  after  they  had  stepped  into  the  forest 
of  Time.  He  said :  '  I  say,  we  must  be  very  careful 
not  to  make  these  new  children  as  big  and  as  strong 
as  we  ourselves  are.'  For  a  long  time  the  hands  of  the 
gods  and  goddesses  were  busy,  as  they  toiled  silently, 
mixing  up  the  materials  in  the  bundles  they  had  brought 
with  them.  Before  sunrise  appeared  on  the  sea's  horizon, 
the  gods  had  hurried  back  to  the  skies,  and  were  watch- 
ing to  see  what  would  happen.  Now  the  gods  and 
goddesses  had  not  long  left  the  lonely  forest  when  old 
Silence  trembled  in  his  cave  at  hearing  the  jabbering 
and  scampering  about  of  unusual  things  amongst  his 
solemn  trees.  An  extraordinary  thing  had  happened, 
for,  as  the  light  of  the  sun  stared  down  through  the 
branches  of  the  coco-palms,  six  newly-created  men 
yawned,  jumped  to  their  new,  soft,  brown  clay  feet, 
and  gazed  on  each  other  in  mute  astonishment.  *  Who 
am  I  ?  Who  are  you  ?  '  It  sounded  like  echoes  answer- 
ing each  other  in  a  cave,  as  each  one  gabbled  forth,  '  Who 
am  I  ?  Who  are  you  ? '  For  a  long  time  they  babbled 
thus.  Then  they  all  stepped  forward  and  said  to  each 
other :  *  Let  us  all  be  happy,  and  care  not  at  all  who  we 
may  be.' 

"  Saying  this,  they  rubbed  noses  and  became  ma 
pataro  (good  friends).  Now,  just  behind  the  bamboos 
and  mangroves,  not  a  spear's  throw  from  where  they 
were  gabbling  and  rubbing  noses,  stood  six  newly-created 
maidens.  These  maidens  also  gazed  at  each  other  in 
astonishment  and  cried  out :  *  Who  are  we  ?  Who  are 


150  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

we?'  Then  in  some  fright  embraced,  much  the  same 
as  the  men  had  done,  and  said :  '  What  matters  it  who 
we  are,  so  long  as  we  are  really  here  ?  '  and  then  they  ran 
down  to  the  seashore. 

"  The  sun  had  risen  and  set  thrice  when  the  maids 
danced  on  the  shore,  all  singing  some  song  which  they 
had  learnt  from  the  soft  murmurings  of  a  seashell. 
Each  had  clad  her  form  in  a  small  lava-lava  that  was 
made  of  seaweed  and  fastened  by  threaded  grass  about 
the  loins.  Standing  on  the  big  lumps  of  red  coral,  they 
all  dived  into  the  ocean,  to  come  forth  laughing,  as  the 
sea-water  fell  glistening  from  their  tresses  that  half  hid 
their  soft  feet.  '  Oh,  how  lovely  this  world  really  is ! ' 
they  said,  as  they  lifted  seashells  to  their  ears,  and,  sing- 
ing again,  dived  headlong  into  the  ocean.  It  so  happened 
that  the  six  newly-created  men  had  made  up  their  minds 
to  go  down  and  bathe  in  the  cool  sea-water;  and,  as 
they  gazed  through  the  belt  of  mangroves,  they  sud- 
denly gave  a  cry  of  astonishment.  One  said :  '  Did  ever 
one  see  such  figures  ? '  Another,  swallowing  the  lump 
that  came  to  his  throat,  said :  '  'Tis  more  wonderful 
than  finding  ourselves  in  this  lonely  forest  to  see  such 
divine  figures.'  Then  yet  another  cried :  '  They  must 
have  come  to  us  out  of  the  night  and  the  starlight  by 
way  of  the  Dawn!'  Then,  half  in  fright,  they  crept 
down  towards  the  shore  so  that  they  might  see  the  maids 
the  plainer.  '  Vanaka !  Vanaka ! '  they  cried,  losing  their 
heads  through  seeing  all  that  they  did  see.  Being  foolish, 
as  men  have  always  been,  they  rushed  forth  from  the 
shadows  of  the  mangroves,  in  haste  to  embrace  the 
maids.  The  maidens,  looking  up  in  wonder  at  hearing 
other  voices,  all  screamed  out  in  astonishment :  '  Oh, 
look,  such  figures! — why,  surely,  more  lovely  than  we 
are ! '  Then,  seeing  that  the  figures  were  rushing  down 
the  shores  towards  them,  they  huddled  in  fright  together, 


HEATHEN'S  GARDEN  OF  EDEN   151 

then,  hastily  lifting  their  loosened  tresses  that  dangled 
down  to  their  feet,  they  ran  off  towards  the  forest  of 
breadfruit  trees.  One,  who  possessed  a  figure  like  a  god- 
dess, lagged  behind  the  others  as  they  raced  up  the  shore, 
for  so  long  was  her  hair  that  it  became  entangled  in  her 
swiftly  moving  feet.  Suddenly  she  fell  down  on  the 
glistening  sand.  The  six  pursuing  newly-created  men 
shouted  with  joy  on  observong  the  maiden's  distress. 
He  who  ran  first  was  a  handsome  youth.  In  a  moment 
he  had  reached  the  side  of  the  fallen  maid,  who,  strug- 
gling to  regain  her  feet,  glanced  despairingly  over  her 
shoulder  up  into  the  eyes  of  him  who  leaned  over  her. 
The  maid  half  turned  her  form  whilst  she  still  lay  in  a 
reclining  position.  So  exquisite  was  the  sight  to  him  who 
had  captured  her  that  he  nearly  swooned,  and  so  it  hap- 
pened that,  ere  the  others  came  up,  the  maid  had  once 
more  regained  her  feet  and  had  sped  off  into  the  forests. 
Hiding  amongst  the  trees  and  flowers,  the  girls  hastily 
plucked  hibiscus  blossoms  and  palm-leaves.  The  flowers 
they  swiftly  placed  in  their  hair,  and,  hurriedly  thread- 
ing the  leaves  with  grass,  they  wrapped  them  about  their 
loins.  '  Was  it  not  foolish  to  run  away  from  such 
figures?'  said  a  tall  maiden,  who  had  soft,  warm  eyes 
like  unto  stars  in  a  pool.  *  It  was !  It  was ! '  they  cried 
together,  as  they  leaned  over  the  lagoon  and  gazed  side- 
ways on  their  images,  swerving  slightly  that  they  might 
discover  why  they  were  so  fascinating.  Seeing  the  men 
no  more,  they  all  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  lagoon  and 
wept  bitterly. 

"  Next  day  they  searched  and  searched  the  forest 
till  at  last  they  found  the  men;  and,  lo!  the  men  fell 
down  on  their  knees  before  them,  and  the  maids  blushed 
exceedingly,  their  eyes  sparkling  with  much  joy.  Ere 
the  moon  had  faded  to  the  size  of  a  bird's  underwing, 
the  maidens  were  full  of  jealousy,  grief,  and  sorrow,  for 


152  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

they  were  each  in  love  with  the  very  one  who  loved 
another.  When  the  gods  of  the  shadowland  (who  were, 
of  course,  aware  of  all  that  had  happened)  heard  the 
moans  and  wailing  lamentations  of  the  men  and  women 
whom  they  had  created,  they  said :  '  What  shall  we  do 
now?  We  have  made  children  of  the  forest,  and  lo, 
have  mixed  them  up  the  wrong  way ! ' 

"  The  goddess  of  Love  gazed  sorrowfully  across  the 
stars,  and  said :  '  I  must  see  what  can  be  done  for  them, 
for  now  that  we  have  made  them  they  are  our 
children.' 

"  Then  all  the  gods  and  goddesses  stamped  their  feet 
in  grief,  and,  crying  out  as  with  one  voice,  said :  '  What 
shall  we  do  now  that  we  have  made  the  first  children  of 
the  forest  wrong?' 

"  The  goddesses  of  Love  and  Passion  replied :  '  We 
must  now  give  unto  them  little  children  of  their  own; 
then  they  will  throw  the  blame  of  their  sorrows  on 
themselves  instead  of  on  us  who  made  them/ 

"  Then  the  goddess  of  Love  continued :  '  Come  on ! 
Come  on ! '  and  at  once  started  to  move  towards  the 
mountains  of  Mburoto,  and  all  the  gods  sadly  followed 
her.  And  when  they  stood  beneath  the  mighty  tree  that 
threw  branches  of  night  across  all  the  skies  and  blos- 
somed the  bright-fingered  stars,  she  said :  '  Stay !  It 
is  here  that  we  must  gather  the  materials  for  the  children 
of  the  children  of  this  new  world  which  we  have  made.' 
Saying  this,  she  stooped  and  gathered  little  bits  of  star- 
light. And  the  gods  and  goddesses,  who  followed  close 
behind  her,  said  :  '  What's  that  for?  ' 

" '  That's  for  the  little  ones'  eyes/  answered  the  god- 
dess of  Love.  Then  she  gathered  some  tiny  red  flowers 
that  were  always  murmuring  music  to  the  soft  winds  on 
the  mountain  side. 

"  '  What's  that  for  ? '  murmured  all  the  gods. 


HEATHEN'S  GARDEN  OF  EDEN   153 

"  '  Why,  that's  to  make  the  children's  tiny  mouths 
with.' 

"  Then  the  goddess  looked  up  and  gave  a  soft  whistle; 
and  down  from  the  beautiful  palm  trees  of  Mburoto 
came  fluttering  to  her  feet  small,  black-breasted 
birds. 

"  '  Lift  your  heads  up,  O  little  birds ! '  she  said,  as  they 
all  sang  to  her.  Then,  as  they  still  whistled  and  whistled, 
she  stooped  down  and  with  her  forefinger  tenderly 
brushed  the  dark  down  from  each  breast. 

"'What's  that  stuff  for?'  growled  the  old  Thangi- 
Thangi,  the  god  of  Hate  and  Sin. 

"  '  Why,  that  is  for  the  hair  on  their  tiny  heads.' 

"  Then  the  goddess  said :  *  Come  on !  Come  on ! '  and 
led  the  way  to  the  edge  of  the  mighty  threshold  of  Atua 
(Elysium). 

"  Then  she  threw  out  a  long  fishing-net,  and  it  fell 
away  down  the  skies.  As  she  pulled  it  up  very  gently, 
it  was  full  of  old  sunsets  and  old  broken  moons. 

"  '  What's  that  stuff  for  ?  '  murmured  the  gods,  as  the 
hills  around  were  lit  up  with  a  sad,  beautiful  light. 

"  '  Why,  that  is  to  make  their  little  hearts  with ;  I 
would  have  them  love  and  worship  us,  these  children 
that  we  have  made,  so  that  when  they  die,  their  spirits 
will  come  back  again  to  shadowland.' 

"  Then  she  led  them  across  the  wide  halls  of  Mburoto, 
till  they  came  to  the  lagoons  that  were  the  shining  mirrors 
of  the  gods  and  goddesses. 

" '  O  gods  and  goddesses  of  shadowland,  bend  for- 
ward and  gaze  into  the  deep  waters  so  that  your  eyes 
will  be  imaged  therein ! ' 

"  Leaning  forward,  they  all  gazed  into  their  own 
mirrored  eyes,  thinking  the  while  deeply  of  all  that  they 
wished.  The  mirrored  eyes  of  the  god  of  Hate  gleamed 
like  fire;  Jealousy's  eyes  stared  and  stared;  and  Mercy's 


154  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

eyes  gazed  back  with  tenderest  beams  into  the  eyes  of 
Love  and  her  sister,  Beauty. 

"'Don't  move!'  said  the  goddess,  as  she  swiftly 
threw  her  magic  fishing-net  into  the  Jagoon,  and  caught 
the  shining,  mirrored  eyelight  of  the  gods  and  goddesses. 
Picking  it  out  of  the  net  very  tenderly  with  her  fingers, 
she  placed  the  gleaming  lumps  of  mystical  light  into  her 
wonderful  bundle. 

"'Is  that  all?'  thundered  Poluto,  the  Master-of -all- 
Desires,  as  he  stamped  his  feet  with  impatience  when  the 
goddess  stooped  yet  again  and  plucked  the  golden  flowers 
that  danced  in  laughter  at  her  feet. 

"  '  Is  that  all  ? '  he  thundered  yet  again,  as  she  put  the 
flowers  in  the  bundle,  and  then  fastened  her  robe  of  the 
western  winds  about  her  tall,  glorious  form ! 

"  '  Alas !  it  is  not  enough,'  she  responded,  as  she  gazed 
tenderly  into  the  eyes  of  impatient  Desire,  and  made 
great  pretence  to  hasten.  For  well  she  knew  that  he 
wanted  nothing  more  than  that ! 

"  Then,  in  single  file,  the  gods  and  goddesses  tramped 
back  the  way  they  had  come,  and  their  tall  shadows 
moved  along  the  mighty  walls  of  the  moonlit  mountains. 

"  Next  night,  while  the  moonbeams  were  shining  over 
the  small  grass-huts  that  the  poor  mortals  had  made,  so 
that  they  could  sleep,  a  shadow  passed  across  the  whole 
of  the  sky.  It  was  the  goddess  of  Love.  She  had  ar- 
rived down  in  the  depths  of  the  forest  wherein  dwelt 
the  sad,  newly-created  mortals.  She  was  so  tall  that 
she  was  obliged  to  use  magic  and  so  make  herself  small. 
When  she  had  shrunken  up  till  she  was  only  about  four 
times  as  big  as  a  mortal,  she  could  walk  with  ease  be- 
neath the  tall  forest  trees.  Taking  a  lump  of  red  clay 
out  of  the  earth,  she  strode  deeper  into  the  forest  glooms. 
Standing  beneath  a  giant  breadfruit  tree,  she  made  a 


HEATHEN'S  GARDEN  OF  EDEN   155 

little  fire  out  of  the  old  moonlights  and  dead  forest  twigs. 
Often  and  often  she  blew  its  little  flame.  Then,  at  last, 
it  burnt  steadily  with  a  blue  light. 

"  Then  she  started  to  make  tiny  figures  out  of  the  red 
clay!  Opening  her  bundle,  she  carefully  took  out  bits 
of  old  sunsets  and  starlight.  For  a  long  time  she  was 
very  busy,  toiling  and  toiling  with  her  fingers,  as  she 
moulded  little  arms,  legs,  and  small  feet.  When  she 
had  completed  her  task  and  had  set  the  little  figures 
all  upright  in  a  row,  she  very  tenderly  put  small  pinches 
of  sunset  and  starlight  into  the  little  holes  she  had  made 
beneath  their  brows.  Then  she  whispered,  and  it 
sounded  as  though  a  wind  went  moaning  through  the 
forest  trees,  and  lo!  the  small  figures  all  looked  up  at 
her,  for  their  eyes  were  made.  Then  she  said  once 
again :  '  Now,  little  forest  children,  gaze  upon  me.' 
Then  all  the  eyes  of  the  small  clay  figures  turned  and 
gazed  on  her !  '  Now  put  out  your  hands,  and  stamp, 
so,  with  your  feet/  At  once  the  little  marionettes 
obeyed,  stamped  their  feet  and  put  forth  their  arms. 
When  the  goddess  had  gazed  approvingly  at  her  own 
handiwork,  she  looked  round  the  silent  forest,  and  said : 
'  Come,  my  little  ones,  follow  me.'  Then  she  strode 
across  the  forest.  And  the  tiny  clay  figures,  looking 
round  with  curiosity,  followed  her,  half  frightened,  as 
they  kept  close  to  the  big  ankles  of  the  goddess  who  had 
made  them.  Their  little  eyes  shone  like  tiny  constella- 
tions of  wandering  stars,  as  they  followed  their  creator 
through  the  depth  of  those  forest  glooms. 

"  At  dawn,  when  the  mortals  awoke  from  sleep,  sun- 
rise was  streaming  through  the  grass  roofs  of  their  huts. 
As  they  all  jumped  up  and  gazed  with  astonishment  at 
the  sight  they  saw,  the  maidens,  who  had  slept  not  far 
away,  cried  out:  '  Oh,  how  beautiful,  to  be  sure! '  For, 


156  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

lo! — a  flock  of  pretty  fantoes  (children)  were  peeping 
into  their  wondering  eyes,  laughing  and  clapping  their 
tiny  hands  as  they  cried  out :  '  Oh,  we  are  your  chil- 
dren; the  gods  and  goddesses  of  Mbau  have  sent  us  to 
look  after  you ! ' 

"  After  that  the  people  multiplied  on  the  island,  till 
there  were  so  many  that  some  were  obliged  to  go  forth 
and  dwell  on  other  isles  of  the  South  Seas.  And  they 
were  all  happy  for  a  long,  long  time,  for  they  did  not 
have  time  hanging  on  their  hands,  so  they  were  not 
jealous,  nor  did  they  quarrel  overmuch." 

"  Tafola,  me  slo ! "  cried  the  children,  as  Tangalora 
finished  his  story. 

Thereupon  the  old  scribe  hastened  round  with  his 
coco-nut-shell  goblet  to  make  the  usual  collection.  The 
children  immediately  threw  in  the  coins  which  their 
mothers  had  given  them,  so  that  they  might  pay  on  a  fair 
royalty  basis  for  the  wonders  which  the  tattooed  Homer 
of  their  isles  had  told  them.  I  flung  in  two  bits  of  silver; 
and,  considering  all  that  I  had  heard,  it  was  cheap  at  the 
price.  Then  the  children,  giving  a  musical  halloo  that 
echoed  through  that  small  Olympus,  scrambled  out  of 
the  cavern  and  disappeared  in  the  forest. 

Tangalora  entertained  me  right  royally  that  night,  not 
only  by  relating  a  lot  of  the  fascinating  storied  history 
of  heathenland,  but  because  of  his  thoughtfulness :  he 
slyly  pulled  a  piece  of  sacking  from  an  old  barrel,  and 
brought  forth  twelve  bottles  of  sparkling  Bass's  ale! 
Squatting  there,  on  Tangalora's  best  fibre  mat,  things 
took  on  quite  a  rosy  look  as  I  listened  whilst  the  summer 
night  grew  old.  Then  I  bade  my  host  good-night  and 
went  outside  in  the  open  to  rest.  There's  a  good  deal 
of  mythology  in  Bass's  ale :  I  know  that  much.  When 
I  had  made  my  bed  beneath  the  palms  and  carefully 


HEATHEN'S  GARDEN  OF  EDEN   157 

placed  my  quilt  of  moss  over  my  tired  frame,  I  distinctly 
saw  the  moon  cheerfully  wave  a  pale  hand  over  the 
highest  pinnacle  of  Vae's  mountain  range.  It  did  not 
seem  strange  that  the  midnight  moon  should  laugh,  and, 
sneezing,  send  a  tiny  spiral  of  mist  across  the  clear  sky. 
All  was  as  it  should  be  when  a  magnificent  procession 
of  mighty  gods  and  goddesses  from  Poluto  marched 
across  my  bedroom  floor,  and  disappeared  in  the  adjacent 
glooms  ere  I  closed  my  eyes  in  sleep. 

Referring  to  my  diary  and  the  scraps  which  I  wrote 
down  in  those  old  days,  I  find  the  notes  considerably 
mixed  up,  parts  quite  obliterated  through  my  sea-chest 
getting  washed  about  on  sailing-ships.  Many  of  the 
pages  are  missing.  But  my  memory  is  good,  and  I  can 
easily  fill  in  the  interminable  gaps.  Indeed,  the  best 
part  of  this  book  is  being  written  within  the  sounds  of 
the  winds  in  the  palms.  The  dark,  sombre  green  of 
the  tropic  landscape  stretches  for  miles  and  miles. 
There  lies  the  expanse  of  the  sapphire-hued  ocean,  end- 
ing far  away  in  the  pale  saffron  fires  of  the  skyline's  sun- 
set, as,  in  my  imagination,  I  softly  dip  my  pen  into  the 
magic  foams  that  sparkle  on  the  coral-dust  sands  at  my 
feet  and  sigh  with  the  coco-palms  overhead. 

I  see  by  my  notes  that  I  have  already  recorded  in 
my  previous  books 1  many  of  the  incidents  connected 
with  my  visit  to  Samoa  at  this  period.  And,  having 
also  previously  related  much  that  befell  me  on  my  first 
voyage  to  Nuka  Hiva  and  Hiva  oa,  I  have  no  alterna- 
tive but  to  revert  to  the  incidents  of  a  very  interesting 
experience  which  came  to  me  after  I  had  "  jumped  ship  " 
in  Fiji.  And  this  I  will  do  in  the  next  chapter. 

1A  Vagabond's  Odyssey;  Wine-Dark  Seas  and  Tropic  Skies; 
Sailor  and  Beachcomber. 


CHAPTER  VIII.     IN  OLD  FIJI 

A  Heathen  Monastery — A  scene  of  Primitive  Heathenism 
— My  unsolicited  Professional  Engagement — I  imbibe 
Kava — I  am  made  "  Taboo " — Things  that  I  may  not 
Confess — My  escape — Fanga  Loma — A  Native  Village — 
The  Enchantress  of  the  Forest — Temptation — In  Suva 
again. 

I  RECALL  that,  though  my  profession  has  never  bur- 
dened me  with  wealth  till  it  seemed  an  encum- 
brance, my  violin  has  enabled  me  to  delve  without  harm 
into  the  most  secretive,  dangerous  heathen  societies  and 
sacred  festivals.  Where  a  white  man  would  have  been, 
in  the  ordinary  way,  clubbed,  or  doped  with  a  mixture 
of  kava  and  South  Sea  strychnine  for  intruding  at  a 
secret  sacred  festival,  I  have  been  received  with  open 
arms.  It  seems  incredible,  when  I  think  of  the  magnifi- 
cent receptions  I  have  had  through  being  able  to  play 
my  old  Sunday-school  hymns  on  a  fiddle  before  ex-can- 
nibal chiefs. 

I  was  in  Suva,  Fiji,  when  I  managed  to  wheedle  my 
way  into  a  heathen  monastery  that  was  the  one  surviving 
temple  of  another  age.  This  sacred  hell  was  situated 
in  a  picturesque  spot  up  in  the  Kai  Tholos  mountains. 
These  Kai  Tholos  tribes  were  a  fierce  mountain  people 
who,  up  till  that  date,  had  successfully  resisted  the  ad- 
vances of  the  British  missionaries.  Few  of  them  were 
still  living,  but  those  few  most  certainly  did  their  best 
to  make  up  for  the  iniquities  of  the  missing  when  they 
met  in  their  temple  cavern  four  miles  west  of  Mandaua, 
not  far  from  the  Rewa  River.  The  aforesaid  river 

158 


IN  OLD  FIJI  159 

ran  through  an  isolated  district  in  those  days.  Where 
now  the  new  sugar  and  coffee  plantations  are,  there 
was  nothing  more  than  a  few  taro  and  pineapple  patches 
that  supplied  the  scattered  villages  with  work  and 
food. 

How  I  got  to  know  the  whereabouts  of  the  aforesaid 
monastery  matters  little.  I  will  simply  say  that  an  elder 
chief,  named  Kambo,  secured  me  uninterrupted  admis- 
sion into  the  cavern-chamber  where  the  old  unconverted 
Kai  Tholos  assembled  for  religious  purposes. 

Only  a  poet  of  superb  descriptive  ability  could  ade- 
quately describe  that  cavern's  interior  and  its  romantic 
surroundings.  All  I  am  able  to  say  of  the  local  scenery 
is,  that  the  mountains  seemed  to  abet,  to  watch  over 
those  wild  Kai  Tholos  and  their  secret  meetings,  for  ever 
guarding  the  cavern's  entrance  with  their  rugged  hol- 
lows and  pinnacles  that  were  clad  with  feathery  palms 
and  the  innocent  flowerage  of  artless  Nature.  It  was 
like  entering  some  wondrous  Arabian  Nights  cave  of 
enchantment  to  enter  that  volcanic  chamber. 

"  In  there?  "  I  said  to  old  Kambo,  as  I  stood  hesitat- 
ing, looking  across  the  silent  gullies,  watching  the  migrat- 
ing cockatoos  fade  away  in  the  aftermath  of  the  sunset 
ere  I  made  up  my  mind  to  enter. 

The  large  red  feathers  in  Kambo's  mop-head  brushed 
against  the  low  roof  of  the  tunnel-way  as  we  both  en- 
tered that  ominous-looking  entrance.  The  glittering 
stalactites,  hanging  in  festoons  from  the  rocky  alcoves, 
intensified  the  weird  atmosphere  of  that  gloomy  place, 
as,  with  fiddle  in  my  hand,  I  crept  warily  behind  my 
swarthy  guide.  We  had  to  stoop,  almost  crawl,  as  we 
passed  along  into  the  third  corridor.  Great  was  my  sur- 
prise as  I  suddenly  entered  a  spacious  chamber.  The 
scene  before  me  almost  dazzled  my  eyes,  for  beneath  the 
hanging  rows  of  innumerable  coco-nut-oil  lamps,  sus- 


160  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

pended  over  a  large  platform,  danced  a  group  of  dusky, 
sparkling-eyed  houris! 

I  stared  like  one  in  a  dream  as  I  continued  to  gaze 
on  those  whirling,  semi-nude  figures.  A  few  were  attired 
in  diaphanous  tappa  robes,  that  seemed  to  be  worn  for 
no  other  purpose  than  for  the  fact  that  they  softly 
opened  out  like  large  umbrellas  and  then  closed  down 
again.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  know  how  to  describe  the 
dances  and  the  various  "  turns  "  those  maids  gave,  as 
they  sought  to  give  the  onlookers  a  violent,  demonstra- 
tive exhibition  of  their  charms.  Some  whirled,  some 
somersaulted,  and  a  few  seemed  to  detach  their  limbs 
from  their  bodies  and  gently  throw  them,  in  boomerang- 
like  swerves,  across  the  stage,  ere  they  returned  and 
fixed  themselves  by  apparent  magic  into  their  customary 
position.  So  it  seemed  to  me,  for  I  am  at  a  loss  to  give 
any  reasonable  explanation  of  maidens  pitching  their 
legs  and  arms  in  such  a  way  as  they  did,  without  dis- 
location, if  not  serious  injury  and  strain.  It  is  quite 
possible  that  they  had  been  trained  from  early  child- 
hood, like  to  our  own  contortionists  and  music-hall 
dancers,  so  that  they  might  please  the  eyes  of  sinful 
old  priests. 

Squatting  on  coco-nut-fibre  mats,  arranged  in  semi- 
circles, reposed  the  most  hideous-looking  chiefs  it  has 
ever  been  my  lot  to  gaze  upon.  They  were  tattooed  in 
grotesque  style  from  toes  to  chin,  their  teeth  reddened 
through  chewing  betel-nut.  They  were  undoubtedly  the 
surviving  grand  old  roues  of  the  pre-Christian  times.  To 
the  indescribable  capers  of  the  sacred  maids,  they  gave 
enthusiastic  grunts  and  awful  wheezes,  and  the  effect 
of  it  all  was  weird  enough  as  the  sounds  echoed  and 
re-echoed  ere  they  escaped  from  the  close  atmosphere 
of  that  subterranean  chamber. 

"  Woi !  Woi !  Vanaka !  "  they  yelled.     Then  several 


IN  OLD  FIJI  161 

old  women  lifted  magic  sticks,  with  sponges  on  the  ends, 
and  wiped  dribble  from  their  ugly  mouths ! 

"  Kasawayo !  Kasawayo !  "  the  whole  audience  yelled, 
as  a  pretty  Fijian  princess  stepped  from  the  alcove  to 
the  right  of  the  stage,  did  a  seemingly  impossible  somer- 
sault, and  gave  a  characteristic  bow.  The  audience  gazed 
on  her  in  breathless  silence.  She  was  arrayed  in  a  most 
picturesque  style;  the  gleams  of  the  hanging  oil-lamps 
falling  upon  her  made  her  appear  like  some  goddess. 
About  her  waist  was  a  girdle  of  shells  and  flowers  that 
dangled  down  to  her  knees.  But  that  which  attracted 
me  most  was  the  manner  of  the  timid  obeisances  which 
she  repeatedly  paid  the  monstrous  wooden  idol  that  an 
old  priest  had  placed  in  front  of  her. 

"  Whathi !  Whathi,  Ndengi !  "  the  audience  yelled,  as 
she  prostrated  herself  before  the  image.  Sometimes 
she  burst  into  blood-curdling  peals  of  laughter  and  beat 
the  floor  with  her  limbs.  Her  skull  must  have  been  ex- 
tremely thick,  for  she  repeatedly  crashed  her  head  on 
the  floor  without  any  apparent  harm  coming  to  it.  She 
looked  like  some  weird  enchantress  as  she  went  through 
the  heathen  rites  which  were  mimicked  in  the  old  ship's 
saloon  mirror  that  was  stuck  up  against  the  cavern's 
wall  just  beside  her.  Once  she  sprang  to  her  feet  as 
though  struck  by  a  sudden  wondrous  thought,  then, 
lifting  one  arm  to  the  rocky  roof,  as  though  it  were 
some  far-off  sky,  made  a  mute  appeal,  moving  her  lips 
as  though  in  prayer.  After  going  through  many 
seemingly  impossible  contortions,  she  put  forth  her  arms 
and,  twining  them  that  they  might  resemble  the  sinuous 
movements  of  a  crawling  serpent,  chanted  a  weirdly 
sweet  melody.  And  all  the  while  this  was  going  on, 
the  whole  audience  chanted  out,  "  Whathi !  Whathi !  " 
Though  she  performed  many  feats  that  made  those 
dusky  old  men  of  the  front  rows  lift  their  chins  to  the 


162  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

roof  in  sheer  ecstatic  joy,  it  was  her  peculiar  wardrobe 
that  mostly  appealed  to  my  imagination.  Rising  to  her 
feet,  she  beat  her  bare  thighs  with  her  hands  and  cried 
out  as  though  in  pain,  her  extensive  wardrobe  rattling 
forth  the  weirdest  music  imaginable.  Her  raiment  was 
adorned  with  the  threaded  bones  and  teeth  of  dead  chiefs, 
old  men's  beards,  maidens'  dried  fingers  and  toes,  and, 
most  sacred  of  all,  the  dried  bosoms  of  sacrificed  girls! 
— there  they  hung,  tied  into  small  bouquets,  bits  of 
tawny  skin  like  shrivelled  parchment,  grotesque  but  sad 
manuscripts  of  forgotten  lovers,  and  what  sad  heart- 
beats! For  it  appeared  that  they  were  the  breasts  of 
vestal  maidens  who  had  fallen  in  love  and  so  violated 
the  principles  of  their  creed.  "No!  Never!"  was  my 
astonished  ejaculation  as  Kambo,  my  friendly  guide,  took 
me  aside  and  whispered  much  to  me  that  must  remain 
where  it  remains.  As  that  old  friendly  chief,  Kambo, 
pointed  out  the  distinctive  charms  that  adorned  the 
dancer's  heathen-raiment,  I  felt  like  making  a  bolt  for 
it.  I  heartily  repented  of  my  foolish  act  in  allowing  my- 
self to  be  lured  into  such,  a  den  of  heathen  iniquity.  But 
it  was  too  late. 

"  Woh,  woil !  You  play  moosic,  alak !  "  said  Kambo, 
as  several  fierce  men  approached  me.  In  a  moment  all 
eyes  were  upon  me.  Something  banged  me  on  the  shoul- 
der. For  a  moment  I  lost  my  head,  and  fancied  that 
some  mighty  heathen  god  had  suddenly  dropped  from 
the  roof  upon  me.  In  my  fright  and  in  the  one  vital 
thought  that  came  to  me,  I  metaphorically  leapt  over 
my  own  shoulders  and  endeavoured  to  bolt  down  the 
tunnel  away  out  into  the  night;  but  a  nudge  in  the  ribs 
with  a  war-club  brought  me  back  to  my  senses.  I  was 
immediately  gripped  by  twelve  pairs  of  dusky  hands  and 
lifted  bodily  by  the  neck  and  shoulders  up  on  the  pae-pae 
(stage).  In  a  flash  I  realized  the  whole  position.  Obedi- 


IN  OLD  FIJI  163 

ently  as  a  child  I  lifted  my  violin  to  my  chin  and  com- 
menced to  play.  Only  God  remembers  the  melody  I 
performed ;  I  don't.  A  chief  chuckled  in  a  blood-curdling 
manner  as  I  finished  the  strain;  then  he  swung  a  war- 
club  across  the  chamber.  I  instinctively  dodged  as  the 
weapon  made  a  boomerang-like  swerve  and  returned  to 
its  owner's  massive  palm!  Seeing  that  the  aforesaid 
act  was  only  an  act  of  appreciation  of  my  playing  by 
the  court  jester,  I  was  immensely  relieved. 

Then  I  took  the  proffered  calabash  of  kava  from  the 
hands  of  the  head  chiefess.  All  eyes  were  on  me;  there 
was  no  way  out  of  it;  I  saw  that  I  had  to  drink  to  the 
glory  of  the  dancer's  eyes.  My  hand  trembled,  I  know, 
as  I  lifted  the  goblet  to  my  lips  and  took  a  sensitive 
gulp  of  that  wretched  stuff;  then  I  nearly  vomited.  It 
was  surely  the  filthiest  liquor  ever  imbibed  by  man.  I 
managed  to  keep  it  down,  though.  It  is  wonderful  what 
one  can  go  through  when  necessity  drives !  Having  read 
the  lives  of  the  British  martyrs,  I  well  knew  my  chances, 
what  might  occur  to  me  if  I  did  not  favour  the  rites  of 
those  primitive  religious  bigots;  consequently  I  swal- 
lowed another  pint,  thinking  it  best  to  take  no  risks  of 
giving  offence. 

After  that  trial  and  dire  insult  to  my  digestive  appa- 
ratus, I  performed  another  solo,  keeping  excellent  tempo, 
considering  my  position,  to  the  mighty  kicks  and  in- 
describable swerves  of  the  heathen  houris  who  were 
giving  a  special  ran-tan  selection  in  my  honour.  The 
very  coco-nut-oil  lamp  gleams  seemed  to  fade  into  a  dim 
blush  as  I  stared  at  the  monstrous  silhouette  of  myself 
that  fiddled  on  the  wall.  I  might  say  that  the  cavern 
was  about  fifteen  feet  high  at  the  end  where  I  stood. 
Just  as  the  unearthly  din  of  the  audience's  delighted 
exclamation  was  fading  away,  half  a  dozen  half-caste 
girls  came  running  into  the  cavern  out  of  the  tunnel 


164  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

entrance.  They  had  coral-dyed  hair,  and  by  the  fairness 
of  their  complexion  I  guessed  that  they  were  a  mixture 
of  Samoan  and  Fijian  blood.  I  felt  much  relieved  to  see 
them  appear,  for  they  were  human-looking,  and  so 
brought  a  sense  of  companionship  into  that  subterranean 
den. 

The  oldest  member  of  the  newcomers  was  attractive- 
looking.  Her  eyes  were  large  and  very  bright.  Her 
crown  of  hair  had  a  marvellous  glitter  about  it  and  fell 
in  soft  ripples  down  to  her  shoulders.  In  another  mo- 
ment she  had  rushed  up  to  me  and  had  prostrated  herself 
at  my  feet!  A  tremendous  yell  from  the  onlookers  fol- 
lowed this  act  of  the  girl's.  It  appeared  that  her  act 
had  made  me  "  taboo  " — a  sacred  personage.  I  felt  be- 
wildered over  it  all.  An  uncomfortable  idea  got  into  my 
head  that  I  was  the  chosen  for  some  heathen  sacrifice! 
I  know  that  I  must  have  visibly  paled.  I  even  appre- 
ciated the  caresses  and  wailing  lamentations  that  the 
goddess-maid  (for  such  she  was)  made  as  she  poured 
strange  phrases  into  my  ears,  telling  me,  doubtless,  of 
my  beauty!  I  do  confess  here  that  her  eyes  told  more 
than  her  lips  (for  I  could  not  understand  the  language 
in  which  she  flattered  me),  and  I  could  not  fail  to  under- 
stand the  meaning  conveyed. 

Loud  acclamations  of  approval  followed  all  that  the 
girl  did.  It  was  some  little  time  ere  I  discovered  how 
I  was  supposed  to  show  my  reciprocation  of  the  dubious 
elevation  that  her  choice  had  conferred  upon  me.  The 
fact  was  that  she  was  the  head  sacred-maid,  and,  instead 
of  choosing  a  youth  of  her  own  race,  had  chosen  me; 
therefore  I  found  myself  suddenly  elevated  to  priest- 
hood. The  order  of  priesthood  was  not  so  bad,  but 
I  discovered  that  I  was  supposed  to  embrace  and  kiss 
the  lips  of  the  monstrous  wooden  idol  that  stood  on  the 
pae-pae  in  front  of  me.  Its  big,  wooden,  grinning,  one- 


IN  OLD  FIJI  165 

toothed  mouth  and  goggling  glass  eyes  seemed  to  say 
in  some  malevolent  voice  of  silence :  "  Come  on,  thou 
dog  of  a  Christian,  kiss  this  heathenish  mouth,  bow  the 
knee  to  me,  thou  destroyer  of  heathen  creeds  and  mighty 
wooden  images !  " 

I  felt  helpless.  I  gazed  in  despair  on  the  front  rows 
of  that  grim,  dusky-hued  audience  of  mop-headed  men! 
They  had  thrust  their  chins  and  clubs  forward  on  seeing 
my  obvious  hesitation  to  worship  that  wooden  thing. 
An  ominous  silence  dwelt  over  all.  Two  fierce  old  hags 
put  forth  their  scraggy  hands  and  made  as  though  to 
clutch  at  me,  but,  warned  by  a  look  from  the  goddess- 
maid  who  had  brought  me  to  that  pass,  they  lifted  their 
chins  and  spat  at  me!  And  still  I  hesitated.  I  would 
die  sooner  than  kneel  before  that  grinning  wooden  deity. 
By  now  the  audience  was  loudly  shouting,  their  head- 
dress of  big  red  feathers  violently  shaking,  and  still  I 
pretended  not  to  understand  what  they  wished  me  to  do. 
But  it  was  hopeless,  for  they  kept  shouting  and  pointing 
to  the  maid  and  then  at  the  idol.  There  stood  that  wooden 
thing,  mocking  me  with  its  hideous  carven  grin.  Not 
even  though  it  meant  death  for  me,  would  I  violate  my 
inherent  dignity  by  embracing  that  monstrous  image. 

"  Woi !  Woi !  "  I  cried,  and,  pretendng  to  misunder- 
stand the  whole  business,  I  leapt  forward  and  embraced 
the  maid. 

Those  old  chiefs  opened  their  mouths  in  astonishment. 
That  much  I  noticed  as  I  instinctively  turned  my  head 
to  see  the  effect  of  my  act.  The  very  tattoo  engraving 
that  adorned  the  faces  of  the  aged  priests  had  wrinkled 
up  into  distorted  bunches.  In  another  moment  each 
look  of  rage  and  horror  had  resolved  into  a  grim  grimace 
— they  were  all  grinning.  I  was  saved!  The  Fijian 
race  was  endowed  with  humour!  No  words  of  mine 
can  adequately  describe  all  I  felt  at  that  moment. 


166  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

My  relief  was  intense.  I  knew  that,  had  those  priests 
been  as  humourless  as  are  British  disciples  in  their  creeds, 
I  had  been  done  for.  God  knows,  my  head,  that  now 
recalls  those  old  days,  would  have  decorated  a  Fijian's 
girdle,  or  would  be  a  pinch  of  dust  beneath  the  South 
Sea  palms,  or  possibly  have  been  discovered  ornamenting 
a  native  hut,  and  by  now  be  on  show,  exhibited  in  some 
British  anthropological  museum,  as  a  fine  specimen  of 
the  skull  of  primitive  man. 

As  the  maid  continued  to  rub  my  face  with  her  soft 
nose  (the  customary  salutation  of  the  Fijians),  I  felt 
much  relieved. 

"  Awaie,  le  oa  taki !  "  she  murmured. 

Then,  in  response  to  the  wish  of  that  subterranean 
audience,  I  placed  my  violin  to  my  chin  and  commenced 
to  play  a  weird  chant  to  her  eyes.  It  had  to  be  done, 
I  knew.  Ah,  how  I  played!  My  instrument  wailed  out 
Wagner's  "  Swan  Song,"  then  I  finished  up  with  a  Band 
of  Hope  hymn.  And  all  the  while  the  maid  fawned  on 
me  like  a  cat,  looked  into  my  eyes,  stroked  my  hand 
that  swayed  the  violin  bow,  and  gazed  in  wonder  on  the 
other  that  travelled  up  and  down  the  fingerboard  of 
my  instrument. 

Suddenly  I  seemed  to  be  whirled  away  on  the  roar 
and  thunder  of  some  invisible  Niagara  Falls.  Forked 
lightning  seemed  to  flicker  down  the  corridors  of  my 
brain.  I  knew  that  it  was  the  fumes  of  that  cursed 
kava  beginning  to  work  on  the  emotional  temperament! 
The  world  seemed  to  wobble  on  its  orbit.  I  made  a 
creditable  effort,  I  am  sure,  to  steady  myself;  then  I 
seemed  to  have  leapt  out  of  myself — I  had  clutched  the 
maid,  and  in  some  awful  delirium  of  ecstasy  was  whirling 
with  her  in  the  heathenish  mekee-dance! 

I  may  not  tell  all  that  occurred  at  that  enforced  pro- 
fessional engagement,  no,  not  till  Time  has  finished  its 


IN  OLD  FIJI  167 

onward  flight  and  the  blind  sun  stares  on  the  melancholy 
past.  One  thing  I  can  confess  to,  and  that  is,  I  had 
made  up  my  mind  to  escape  at  the  first  opportunity. 
Opposite  me  was  the  tunnel-way  wherethrough  I  had 
entered.  Often,  as  the  clamouring  audience  rose  to 
encore  the  dancers,  their  shadows  fell  on  me  and  across 
the  cavern  walls;  but  my  chance  seemed  never  to  arrive. 
Still  I  played  on  and  watched,  and  still  the  maid  whom 
I  had  embraced  sang  a  weird  melody  of  wailful  sweetness 
into  my  ears. 

Once  more  I  was  compelled  to  imbibe  the  "  sacred  " 
potion  of  kava,  and  once  more  my  digestive  apparatus 
groaned  within  me. 

I  thought  I  must  surely  be  dreaming  when  all  the 
fierce,  watching  eyes  of  the  priests,  who  stared  at  the 
goddess-maid  and  myself,  suddenly  dropped  from  their 
sockets  and  twinkled  on  the  cavern's  floor !  This  strange 
effect  was  caused,  not  only  through  some  obliquity  of 
my  kava-stricken  vision,  but  also  because  a  puff  of  wind 
suddenly  blew  down  the  tunnel-way's  entrance  and 
swayed  the  rows  of  coco-nut-oil  lamps  into  shadowy 
gleams.  As  soon  as  normal  conditions  returned,  my 
senses  seemed  to  readjust  themselves. 

Suddenly  the  sacred  personage,  Kasawayo,  who  had 
stood  aside  since  I  had  been  made  taboo,  stepped  for- 
ward and  cried  :  "  Alaka !  "  (Hold !) 

This  act  of  Kasawayo's  gave  me  considerable  relief. 
I  saw  that  she  had  some  great  influence  over  the  priests ; 
for  they  immediately  ceased  their  hubbub  and  their  re- 
marks, I  am  sure,  of  a  debased  nature. 

It  appeared  that  Kasawayo  was  the  religious  imper- 
sonation of  some  great  goddess  of  shadowland,  and  I 
had  reason  to  believe  that  she  was  a  jealous  impersona- 
tion. Stepping  on  the  small  platform,  she  gave  the 
maid  who  had  made  me  taboo  a  fierce  whack  on  the 


168  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

face!  A  great  hullabaloo  followed  this  ungracious  act. 
The  priests,  chiefesses,  and  youths  leapt  from  their  mats 
and  joined  enthusiastically  in  the  melee.  My  chance 
to  escape  had  come!  In  a  second  I  had  dived  towards 
the  cavern's  side.  I  scrambled  down  the  tunnel-way. 
When  I  arrived  at  the  spot  where  one  was  compelled 
to  stoop,  a  great  fear  seized  my  heart,  for  I  heard  the 
sound  of  breathing  just  behind  me — I  knew  that  I  was 
pursued!  I  cursed  my  ample  bulk.  Had  I  been  a  little 
thinner  I  could  have  squeezed  through  the  narrow  aper- 
ture easily  enough.  Holding  my  violin  forward  in  one 
hand,  so  that  I  could  clear  the  walls  without  its  being 
crushed,  I  gave  a  final  wriggle — I  was  through ! 

My  delight  can  be  imagined  when  I  emerged  into  the 
bush  of  the  surrounding  gullies.  Scrambling  through 
the  tropical  growth  I  heard  a  faint  shuffling  noise  close 
behind  me.  It  was  evident  that  someone  else  had  rushed 
through  the  tunnel-way  and  was  close  on  my  track. 

"  I'm  done  for ! "  I  thought,  as  I  turned  round,  deter- 
mined to  sell  my  life  dearly.  The  old  barbarian  that 
dwells  in  all  men  leapt  into  my  soul.  I  even  felt  some 
fierce  joy  at  the  idea  of  cracking  my  pursuer's  skull  ere 
I  fell.  "  Come  on ! "  I  shouted,  as  I  held  a  lump  of 
rock  over  my  head;  then  I  dropped  my  clumsy  weapon 
and  smiled — the  dusky  goddess-maid  who  had  made  me 
taboo  stood  before  me! 

"  Come,  Papalagi ! "  she  whispered,  as  she  clutched 
my  arm. 

Like  an  obedient  child  I  raced  along  as  she  ran  soft- 
footed  beside  me.  I  felt  that  I  was  running  across  some 
fairy-world  in  a  dream,  as  I  saw  the  maid's  flying  heels 
and  the  moonlit  forest  around  me. 

"  Runner  fast !  "  she  said. 

And  so  I  did. 

Arriving  at  the  bottom  of  the  steep  incline,  we  pulled 


IN  OLD  FIJI  169 

up  by  the  edge  of  a  wide  mountain  lagoon.  Feathery 
palms  leaned  over  the  silent  waters.  The  moon,  high 
in  the  sky  right  overhead,  was  imaged  distinctly  in  the 
dark  water  at  my  feet,  and  by  the  mirrored  orb  floated 
a  canoe.  The  clear  shadow  of  that  tiny  craft  was  so 
distinct  that  it  seemed  to  float  just  over  the  moon's  image, 
the  shadow  being  more  visible  than  the  canoe  itself. 

"O  Papalagi,  jumper!  jumper!  "  said  the  maid  in  an 
appealing  voice. 

I  did  not  hesitate,  but  I  leaned  forward  and  leapt — 
splash! — I  had  jumped  into  the  shadow  craft  and  down 
into  the  depths  of  the  imaged  moon.  The  maid,  as  I 
floundered  about  in  the  deep  water,  clutched  my  hair, 
and  so  enabled  me  to  scramble  up  on  the  lagoon's  edge. 

"  Silly  Papalagi ! "  she  murmured ;  then  we  heard  the 
wild  calls  of  our  pursuers  coming  from  somewhere  up 
in  the  mountains.  In  a  moment  I  had  leapt  again,  this 
time  landing  safely  in  the  real  article.  The  way  that 
girl  paddled  the  canoe  is  something  that  pleases  my 
memory  to  this  day.  She  looked  like  some  pretty  en- 
chantress as  she  sat  there  in  front  of  me,  her  paddle 
cutting  a  line  of  fire  as  she  dipped  softly  into  the  radiance 
of  the  moon's  white  flame.  So  clear  were  those  huddled 
waters  from  the  distant  mountains,  that  we  could  see 
ourselves  sitting  in  the  canoe  as  it  sped  across  the  dark 
depths.  I  felt  a  thrill  of  joy  as  we  gently  beached  on  the 
opposite  shore.  The  girl  leapt  softly  from  the  canoe; 
as  for  me,  I  upset  the  fragile  craft  and  then  scrambled 
knee-deep  ashore.  My  little  comrade  was  evidently  taking 
no  risks  that  night. 

"  Comer  on !  "  she  said. 

It  took  me  all  my  time  to  keep  up  with  her  as  she 
raced  down  into  the  hollows  and  sped  up  the  steep  in- 
clines. There  seemed  no  ending  to  that  forest,  ere  we 
rushed  out  from  the  shades  of  the  breadfruits  and  I 


170  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

found  myself  in  a  large,  cleared  space  that  fronted  a 
native  village ! 

Even  then  I  did  not  feel  easy  in  my  mind.  But  I  was 
relieved  when  the  girl  told  me  that  it  was  her  own  village. 
The  hushed,  huddled,  bee-hive-shaped  dens  in  the  shade 
of  the  palms,  through  which  the  saluting  moonlight  fell, 
made  a  picturesque  scene. 

"  Is  it  safe  ?  "  I  said,  as  I  stared  at  the  rows  of  huts. 

The  little  goddess-maid  answered  me  by  turning  a 
somersault  on  the  rara  (village  green)  right  in  front  of 
my  eyes. 

Then  Fanga  Loma,  for  that  turned  out  to  be  her  name, 
ran  across  the  green  patch  and  entered  one  of  the  larger 
huts. 

"  Supposing  she's  a  traitor  ?  "  I  thought,  as  the  girl 
disappeared. 

But  she  was  straight  enough.  In  a  few  moments  I 
heard  sleepy  mutterhigs,  and  then  a  loud  jabbering  com- 
menced. In  a  few  moments  Fanga  Loma's  parents,  for 
such  they  were,  had  hastily  arrayed  themselves  in  their 
fig-leaves,  so  to  speak,  and  had  run  out  of  the  hut  to  see 
and  welcome  me!  For  a  considerable  time  Fanga  con- 
tinued to  jabber  in  her  own  tongue  to  her  people.  I 
could  only  guess  the  lies  she  was  telling  them  as  she 
pointed  excitedly  to  me  and  then  gabbled  again.  She  was 
a  clever  little  devil,  for  the  pleased  expression  on  the 
faces  of  her  aged  parents  was  a  treat  to  see.  I  sup- 
pose she  had  to  invent  some  kind  of  a  tale.  The  village 
was  a  Christianized  one,  and  had  Fanga  told  the  truth 
her  parents  would  probably  have  been  greatly  incensed 
at  finding  that  she  visited  the  heathen  Kai  Tholos  of 
the  mountains.  Though  it  was  midnight,  a  festival 
was  immediately  given  in  my  honour.  From  the  in- 
numerable grunts  of  pleasure  and  the  attention  which  was 
lavished  upon  me,  I  gathered  that  I  was  supposed  to  have 


IN  OLD  FIJI  171 

rescued  Fanga  Loma  from  some  dire  danger.  As  for 
Fanga,  she  gave  me  many  fascinating  glances  of  confi- 
dence, and  seemed  quite  assured  that  I  was  not  the  kind 
to  go  back  on  her  and  tell  the  truth !  She  had  evidently 
met  white  men  before,  and  so  knew  what  holy  beggars 
they  were! 

Sleepy  youths  and  women  dodged  about  as  they  lit 
up  the  hanging  coco-nut-oil  lamps  that  are  to  be  seen 
in  all  native  villages.  In  a  few  moments  they  were  all 
alight,  and  the  breadfruit  and  banyan  boughs  looked  like 
the  branches  of  some  fairy  scene.  I  knew  what  was 
expected  of  me,  and  so  I  took  up  my  position  beneath 
the  centre  palm  tree  and,  placing  my  violin  to  my  chin, 
commenced  to  play.  Possibly  I  looked  like  some 
wondrous  heathen  god  pulling  invisible  strings — strings 
that  guided  the  wonderful  capers  of  those  semi-heathen 
people.  Up  and  down  they  jumped,  the  whole  popula- 
tion bobbing  like  puppets  as  I  fiddled  away!  The  little 
kiddies  awoke  from  their  sleeping-mats  and  rushed  out 
of  the  huts  to  see  the  fun.  To  see  a  white  man  playing 
a  strange  instrument  under  a  palm  by  moonlight  was 
something  that  made  the  kids  stare  in  wonder.  They 
looked  like  dusky  cherubs  as  they  crept  on  all-fours 
among  the  leafy  banyan  groves,  and  peered  at  me 
between  the  fern  and  palm  leaves  in  fright.  Such 
demon-bright  eyes  they  had !  And  when  I  whipped  out 
the  flute-like  harmonies  of  Paganini's  "  Witches' 
Dance,"  they  all  gave  a  shriek  of  terror,  let  the  big  palm 
leaf  drop,  and  vanished,  as  it  were,  into  shadowland! 

After  playing  for  a  considerable  time,  I  stopped,  and 
intimated  to  the  chiefs  that  I  wished  to  get  away.  At 
first  they  begged  me  to  stay;  but,  seeing  that  I  was 
determined,  they  loaded  me  with  coco-nut  milk.  One 
old  woman  took  a  large  bone  hair-comb  from  her  mop  and 
presented  it  to  me.  After  a  little  discussion  they  agreed 


172  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

to  let  Fanga  Loma  accompany  me  a  little  way  on  the 
route.  I  was  glad  of  this  gracious  act,  for  I  felt  a 
bit  nervous  that  night.  And  so  off  Fanga  Loma  and  I 
went.  I  heard  the  death-owl  screaming  as  we  entered 
the  deep  shadows  of  the  forest.  Fanga  began  to  sing 
a  pretty  strain  as  her  bare  feet  shuffled  a  kind  of  tempo 
to  her  melody  while  she  walked  beside  me.  I  felt  like 
a  heathen  as  the  moonlight  streamed  through  the  giant 
trees  and  that  strange  girl  stared  up  into  my  eyes.  Those 
eyes  of  hers  were  unearthly  bright,  and  seemed  to  express 
the  wild,  poetic  mystery  of  her  race.  She  cast  a  weird 
atmosphere  over  everything  by  her  eerie  presence.  The 
trees  around  me,  the  moonlight  on  the  tropic  flowers,  the 
stealing  streams,  and  the  stars,  seemed  charged  with  the 
magical  light  of  Fanga  Loma's  eyes!  I've  often 
fancied  I've  felt  the  mystery  of  the  great  Unseen  that 
dwells  about  us  as  we  move  through  this  mortal  existence, 
and  such  a  feeling  of  the  proximity  of  the  unknown  and 
"  worlds  not  realized "  came  to  me  that  night.  That 
eerie,  star-eyed  girl  seemed  some  enchantress,  some  dusky 
Christabel  haunting  my  footsteps  as  I  softly  trod  the 
mossy  path  of  that  moonlit  forest.  It  was  a  bewitching 
melody  that  she  sang  as  she  softly  swayed  in  an  elfin- 
like  manner  beside  me. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  don't  sing  that ! "  I  whispered, 
as  I  looked  into  her  face. 

And  did  she  stop? — not  she!  She  simply  sang  on  all 
the  more,  then  looked  up  into  my  eyes.  I  trembled;  a 
fierce  light  shone  in  those  unearthly  bright  orbs. 

"Why  you  leaver  go  my  arm?"  she  wailed;  then 
she  said  softly:  "  Papalagi,  must  you  go  and  leaver 
Fanga  Loma  for  ever?  " 

We  were  standing  by  the  cross-road  of  the  forest  as 
she  said  that.  The  girl's  manner  and  the  eerie  gaze  of 
her  eyes  carried  me  out  of  myself  back  into  some  other 


IN  OLD  FIJI  1T3 

age.  I  realized  my  weakness,  and  turned  away  from 
those  shining,  appealing  eyes.  I  kissed  the  hand  she 
offered,  and  gazed  as  though  in  deep  thought  on  the 
floor  of  the  silent  forest. 

"  Fanga,  I  must  go  back  to  Suva,  but  I  will  return 
some  day,"  I  whispered,  as  I  looked  in  fright  on  the 
giant  trees,  wondering  if  they  could  hear! 

Then  the  girl  fell  on  her  knees,  lifted  her  hands  to  the 
forest  height,  and  cried  out  in  this  wise : 

"  Is  not  the  world  of  love,  the  magic  of  the  stars, 
flowers,  and  deep  waters  and  touch  of  a  maiden's  lips 
enough  for  such  as  you?  Are  not  these  trees  that  sigh 
over  us  our  dear,  great  friends,  and  yours  too,  O  white 
Papalagi?  Who  is  this  great  white  god  that  seems 
sweeter  to  you  than  the  loving  arms  of  a  maid?  Hear 
me,  I  am  daughter  of  great  chief.  The  village  will  be 
your  own,  chiefs  will  fawn  at  your  feet  and  cast  nicer 
fruits  and  shells  at  you!  " 

For  a  moment  I  marvelled  at  the  maid's  sudden  out- 
burst. I  wondered  if  she  had  been  reading  some  South 
Sea  novel,  so  strangely  romantic  did  it  all  seem. 

"  I  will  come  again,  Loma,"  I  murmured,  as  I  recovered 
my  senses  and  gazed  steadily  into  the  eyes  of  that  wild 
girl  of  the  forest.  She  was  little  more  than  a  child; 
many  acts  of  hers  had  told  me  that  much. 

"Farewell,  little  goddess-maid!"  I  said. 

"  Farewell,  O  Papalagi ! "  she  whispered,  then  she 
gave  a  jump  and — splash!  had  dived  headlong  into  the 
lagoon  by  our  side. 

"  God,  she's  committed  suicide!  "  I  thought,  as  I  made 
to  leap  into  the  dark  water.  I  could  see  only  a  few 
ripples  where  she  had  disappeared.  I  put  forth  my  hands 
to  dive,  then  stopped,  for  out  in  the  middle  of  the  lagoon 
up  came  a  tangled  mass  of  hair !  It  was  Fanga's  head.  I 
saw  her  swimming  arms  and  dusky  shoulders  twinkle  in 


174  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

the  moonlight.     She  was  simply  swimming  across  the 
lagoon,  taking  the  nearest  cut  back  to  her  native  village ! 

When  I  awoke  in  my  Suva  lodging-house  next  morning, 
I  discovered  that  my  violin  was  cracked.  But  for  the 
scratches  on  my  legs  and  the  wisps  of  hair  from  dead 
men's  grey  beards  clinging  to  my  blue  serge  suit,  I 
might  have  concluded  that  the  whole  of  my  night's  adven- 
tures were  the  outcome  of  a  nightmare.  About  a  week 
after  my  adventure  in  that  heathen  monastery  and  with 
Fanga  Loma,  I  met  a  chief  who  claimed  to  be  the  son 
of  King  Thakombau.  He  was  an  intelligent  man,  and 
told  me  a  lot  about  the  doings  of  the  old  cannibalistic 
times.  When  I  told  him  what  I  had  experienced  in  the 
heathen  monastery  of  the  Kai  Tholos,  he  gave  me  a  hint 
as  to  what  might  have  happened  to  me  had  I  not  made 
my  escape.  It  was  this  son  of  Thakombau's  who  told  me 
many  interesting  heathen  legends.  One  legend  in  particu- 
lar struck  my  imagination,  for  it  was  about  the  old  god- 
dess Kasawayo,  but  was  so  different  from  the  impersona- 
tion I  had  seen  in  the  Kai  Tholos  temple,  that  I  will 
do  my  best  to  give  an  impression  of  all  that  I  heard  in 
the  following  chapter. 


CHAPTER  IX.     KASAWAYO  AND  THE  SERPENT 

(A  FIJIAN  LEGEND  FOR  YOUNG  AND  OLD  CHILDREN) 

A  Goddess  in  the  Garb  of  Mortality — A  Garden  of  Eden 
— Temptation — Kasawayo  and  Kora  the  Mortal — The 
Battle— Flight  to  Shadowland. 

AiES  ago  a  goddess  of  shadowland  sickened  of  the 
sacred  halls  of  the  passionless  gods.  One  day  a 
great  desire  to  be  a  mortal  entered  her  heart,  for  she 
had  once  been  a  mortal  herself  and  had  had  the  desires 
of  mortality,  but  knew  it  not.  She  was  sitting  by  her 
cavern  door,  gazing  across  the  starlit  singing  seas  of 
paradise,  when  she  made  up  her  mind  to  desert  shadow- 
land. 

"  My  heart  is  lonely  enough ;  I  long  for  warm  lips 
that  will  kiss  my  face  and  eyes  and  give  unto  my  soul 
those  impassioned  tendernesses  that  I  so  strangely  re- 
member in  my  dreams,"  she  cried,  as  she  listened  to  the 
moaning  of  the  waves  and  sighing  forest  trees  of  shad- 
owland. "  Why,  why  should  I  sit  here  weeping,  listen- 
ing, for  thousands  of  moons,  and  none  to  touch  my  lips?  " 
So  thought  the  goddess  as  she  put  her  fingers  up  and 
softly  twirled  the  skeins  of  tangled  sunset  that  adorned 
her  hair.  Having  made  up  her  mind,  she  at  once  went 
off  and  consulted  the  oracles  (who  were  the  great  dead 
chiefs  of  Fiji).  Listening  eagerly  to  them,  she  at  once 
followed  their  advice,  and  so  started  to  travel  across  the 
wonderful  mountains  of  Mbula.  It  was  in  the  great 
mountains  of  Mbula  where  she  could  kneel  at  the  altar 
and  feet  of  the  great  god  Ndengi,  who  was  the  Supreme- 

175 


176  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

Giver  of  shadowland.  After  travelling  a  long  way, 
Kasawayo  (for  that  was  the  goddess's  name)  came  to 
the  entrance  of  a  cavern  in  the  mountain's  side.  As  she 
approached  the  entrance,  a  beautiful  light  streamed  out 
upon  her.  She  gazed  round,  and  heard  the  tramp  of 
the  vassal  gods  who  were  passing  across  the  outer  plains. 
They  were  going  off,  she  knew,  to  hang  the  stars  and 
moons  and  fleecy  clouds  up  in  the  sky. 

On  seeing  the  mighty  heathen  gods  travelling  along 
by  the  light  of  their  own  eyes — eyes  that  stared  like 
beautiful  moons  across  the  plains — Kasawayo  knew  she 
had  arrived  at  the  wonderful  halls  wherein  dwelt  Ndengi. 
Prostrating  herself  before  the  sentinel  gods  (for  such 
they  were  who  stood  for  ever  watching  by  the  great 
hollow  of  the  doorway  where  she  stood),  she  said:  "I 
am  Kasawayo,  the  goddess  of  half-remembered  dreams, 
and  it  is  my  wish  to  enter  the  mighty  halls  of  Mbula." 

The  taller  sentinel,  who  stood  as  high  as  a  mountain, 
and  who  was  busy  tattooing  the  sky  with  stars,  dropped 
his  mighty  calabash  that  was  full  of  the  dead  hopes  of 
human  dreams,  and  said : 

"  Vanaka !    O  Le  Su  Kasawayo." 

In  another  moment  Kasawayo  had  entered  the  door- 
way of  the  underworld,  and  was  travelling  along  a  track 
that  had  mighty  mountains  on  each  side.  Looking  up- 
ward she  saw  the  spirits  of  the  dead  flying  ahead  of 
her,  on  the  way  to  the  wrathful  Ndengi  to  be  judged  for 
their  sins  on  the  great  living  world. 

"  Vanaka !  "  she  cried,  waving  her  hand  as  the  sorrow- 
ing souls  passed  right  overhead.  Death  had  reshaped 
them  into  beautiful  bird-like  things  that  had  the  faces 
of  handsome  youths.  Kasawayo  sighed  as  their  glimmer- 
ing wings  flitted  beneath  the  stars  that  shone  over  the 
mountain  peaks ;  then  they  passed  from  her  sight. 

Kasawayo  felt  very  sad  and  weary  when  she  at  last 


KASAWAYO  AND  THE  SERPENT       177 

arrived  before  the  vast  pae-pae  (throne)  whereon  sat 
the  great  god  Ndengi.  Across  the  roof  of  the  under- 
world shone  a  myriad  stars,  and  many  moons  sent  wist- 
ful gleams  across  the  mysterious  forest  regions  of  Spirit- 
land. 

Kasawayo  trembled  as  she  approached  the  vast  pae-pae. 
A  stream  of  green  light  fell  slantwise  through  the 
branches  of  the  giant  palms  that  leaned  over  the  god's 
throne,  sending  wistful  gleams  down  on  the  small  form 
of  the  ambitious  goddess.  As  the  moonbeams  trickled 
over  her  tresses  that  fell  in  a  shining  cataract  down  to 
her  bare  feet,  she  said : 

"  O  great  Ndengi,  I  have  travelled  far,  for  I  wish  to 
go  down  the  skies  and  live  on  the  isles  of  .Fiji." 

Then  Ndengi  spoke,  and  his  voice  sounded  like  the 
far-off  muttering  of  thunder  in  the  mountains : 

"  I  will  let  you  go  down  over  the  waters  of  the  sunsets, 
but  ere  you  go  I  must  turn  you  into  a  bird." 

At  hearing  that  she  would  be  turned  into  a  bird  that 
could  so  easily  fly  to  the  homes  of  mortal  men,  Kasawayo 
was  delighted,  and  at  once  fell  on  her  knees  before 
.Ndengi  and  sang  a  prayer  in  this  wise : 

"  Oh,  great  Ndengi,  God  of  Mbau, 
My  heart  murmurs,  full  of  love  for  you; 
And  the  flowers  and  foaming  rivers  of  shadowland 
Are  singing  of  the  splendours  of  Ndengi. 
The  beauty  of  your  wandering  thoughts,  the  stars, 
Sing  passionless  in  the  hollow  of  your  hand, 
Telling  of   your   love   for  mighty   things." 

Then  she  gazed  up  softly  in  the  great  god's  eyes,  and 
whispered  in  a  frightened  way : 

"  I  am  a  woman  of  half-remembered  dreams, 
Where  forests  sigh  above  the  stealing  streams, 
And  so  I  long  to  gaze  in  warm,  wild  eyes 
Of  men  where  Passion  in  her  sorrow  sighs." 


178  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

Like  a  great  wind  was  the  sigh  of  Ndengi  as  Kasawayo 
ceased  her  sweet  song.  Then  he  said :  "  Arise !  "  and 
the  goddess  rose  to  her  feet  and  stumbled  on  her  thin 
legs,  for  she  had  been  turned  into  a  great  bird!  Her 
eyes  were  still  beautiful  and  sparkled  like  unto  the  stars. 
Her  wings  were  tipped  with  gold  and  striped  with  deep 
crimson  and  green,  her  breast  was  as  snowy  white  as  the 
orange  blossom.  Ndengi  leaned  against  the  mountains 
that  were  pillars  of  his  throne,  and,  gazing  on  the  trans- 
formed Kasawayo,  said : 

"  I  have  disguised  you  so  that  no  mortal  will  dare  to 
love  you." 

Kasawayo,  on  hearing  this,  smiled  in  her  heart  as  she 
stared  in  Ndengi's  great  mirror,  a  lagoon  that  imaged 
him  as  he  sat  on  his  throne.  She  saw  that  she  had  a 
woman's  eyes,  and  she  knew  what  a  woman's  eyes  could 
do.  Then,  down  the  mountain's  paths  and  across  the 
valleys  of  Mbau,  the  goddesses  came  running,  for  they 
had  heard  the  echoes,  and  would  wish  Kasawayo  good- 
bye ere  she  left  shadowland. 

"  Vanaka!  Le  tao.  O  Kasawayo,  you  look  beautiful, 
though  you  are  a  bird." 

Kasawayo  lifted  her  eyes  in  her  vanity  and  saw  her 
own  image  reflected  in  Ndengi's  great  eyes !  "  He  warns 
me !  "  she  muttered. 

Then  Kasawayo  spread  her  new  wings,  and  without 
a  moment's  hesitation  flew  off  into  the  starlit,  silent  night. 
Often  her  wings  brushed  against  the  soft  light  of  the 
stars  as  she  curved  in  her  downward  flight  ere  she  came 
to  the  Fijian  Isles,  which  she  had  seen  in  dreams  and 
heard  about  from  sinful  spirits.  She  was  well  pleased 
as  she  fluttered  over  the  breadfruit  trees  that  grow  in 
such  abundance  near  Nadronga  on  the  isle  of  Viti  Levu. 
Sitting  on  the  topmost  bough  of  a  tall  coco-palm,  she 
gazed  down,  and  stared  curiously  on  a  flock  of  Fijian 


KASAWAYO  AND  THE  SERPENT       179 

children  who  were  romping  in  the  drala-weed  and  deep 
fern  of  the  forest  floor.  The  sight  of  those  children 
awakened  strange  old  memories  in  her  mind. .  Looking 
down  in  a  sidelong  look,  as  a  bird  must  look,  she  said : 

"  Children  of  the  forest,  I  am  the  goddess  Kasawayo, 
and  have  come  from  shadowland  to  watch  over  you  all !  " 

The  children  gazed  in  surprise  as  they  looked  up  and 
saw  a  wonderful  bird  with  a  human  face  speaking  to 
them  from  the  topmost  bough  of  the  coco-nut  palm. 
Then  they  all  shouted  back  to  the  goddess : 

"  Are  you  Kasawayo,  she  of  whom  the  great  chiefs  of 
our  village  so  often  talk  and  pray  about?  " 

Then  a  fierce-looking  boy  looked  up  and  said : 

"  You've  caused  a  lot  of  sorrow  in  our  hut,  you  have. 
Why  didn't  you  hear  my  mother's  prayers  ?  " 

But  Kasawayo  only  flapped  her  wings,  and  gazed  down 
on  the  children  in  sorrow.  At  this  moment  a  serpent 
crawled  out  of  the  thick  bamboo  bush  hard  by  the  swampy 
lagoon.  It  had  a  long,  crimson-hued  neck  that  soared 
upwards  and  fell  as  it  crawled,  like  the  neck  of  a  lika-bird 
(swan).  On  seeing  the  children  it  at  once  stood  erect 
on  its  twisted  tail,  and  hissed  forth  : 

"  Children,  what  are  you  talking  to  up  in  that  tree  ?  " 

"  We  are  talking  to  a  bird,  O  god  of  the  shore  caves," 
said  the  children,  as  they  all  pointed  up  into  the  coco- 
palm. 

The  serpent,  who  was  a  disguised  god,  looked  curiously 
up  into  the  coco-palm,  and  then  said  in  a  soft,  insinuating 
way: 

"  Why,  Kasawayo ! — it's  you !  "  Then  it  added  : 
"  Why,  I  never  thought  to  see  you  down  here  after  all 
these  thousands  of  years!  " 

"  Yes,  it's  I,  right  enough ;  Ndengi  let  me  come  down 
and  see  you  all  for  a  while." 

"  Did  he  ?  "  responded  the  serpent. 


180  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

Kasawayo  felt  a  bit  worried  as  she  looked  sideways 
down  at  the  serpent.  Then,  feeling  it  would  be  best  to 
be  quite  pleasant,  she  said  as  she  gave  a  coquettish 
glance : 

"  I  am  pleased  to  see  you  again,  but  what  I  really 
wish  to  see  is  a  handsome  Fijian  youth  who  will  love  me 
and  return  with  me  to  the  halls  of  Mbau." 

"You  do,  do  you?"  thought  the  serpent-god  as  it 
looked  up  at  Kasawayo,  a  crafty,  envious  gleam  in  its 
big  green  eyes. 

Kasawayo,  who  now  had  a  woman's  instincts,  trembled 
slightly  as  she  noticed  that  look.  Then  she  said : 

"  I  know  you'll  help  me  to  find  a  handsome,  passionate 
mortal,  won't  you?" 

The  serpent-god  swelled  to  double  his  size,  and,  looking 
up  at  Kasawayo,  thought  to  himself : 

"  Why,  I  like  the  look  of  you  myself,  and  I  can  be  a 
passionate  lover  if  I  like." 

Being  a  wary  serpent-god,  he  took  care  that  Kasawayo 
should  have  no  inkling  of  his  thoughts.  Then  he  un- 
rolled his  spotted  body  so  that  he  might  reveal  his  vivid 
colours  to  the  best  advantage.  Having  shown  his  beauty, 
he  said : 

"  Kasawayo,  I  will  do  my  best  to  find  you  a  handsome 
lover." 

"Vanaka!  O  serpent-god,"  quoth  Kasawayo,  as  she 
spread  her  wings  that  the  serpent  might  see  that  she  was 
as  well-coloured  as  he  was.  In  another  moment  she  had 
bravely  fluttered  down  to  the  forest  floor. 

"Alow!  Woi!"  cried  the  wondering  children,  as 
Kasawayo  stood  beside  the  hot-eyed  serpent. 

"Run  away,  children!"  said  the  artful  serpent-god. 

In  a  moment  the  children  had  all  vanished,  were  run- 
ning home  to  the  village  to  tell  their  parents  all  they 
had  seen. 


KASAWAYO  AND  THE  SERPENT       181 

Turning  to  Kasawayo,  the  serpent-god  said  in  his 
gentlest  voice : 

"Come  on!" 

And  so  Kasawayo  with  a  trembling  heart  went  away 
through  the  forest,  walking  by  the  side  of  the  crawling 
serpent-god  whose  heart  was  bitter  indeed  to  think  he 
was  not  disguised  by  the  fates  as  a  handsome  youth 
instead  of  an  ugly  serpent-thing. 

"  Sing  to  me,"  said  the  god,  as  he  glided  by  Kasawayo's 
side. 

Kasawayo  at  once  lifted  her  half-bird,  half-human 
face,  and  sang. 

And,  while  the  serpent-god  was  flattering  Kasawayo 
and  giving  artful  hints,  a  handsome  native  youth  sud- 
denly emerged  from  the  forest  shadows  and  stood  before 
them. 

"  A  youth — the  very  one !  "  exclaimed  the  goddess. 

On  hearing  Kasawayo's  unguarded  exclamation,  the 
god  got  into  a  great  rage  and  cursed  himself  for  asking 
the  goddess  to  sing.  For  it  was  the  sweet  voice  of  the 
goddess  that  had  attracted  the  handsome  youth  as  he 
lay  dreaming  under  the  coco-palms. 

Now  this  youth's  name  was  Kora,  and  Kora  was  a 
passionate  youth.  The  serpent-god  noticed  the  look  of 
admiration  that  leapt  into  the  youth's  eyes  as  he  stood 
before  them. 

"  I  must  get  rid  of  him,"  thought  the  god,  as  he  looked 
up  into  Kora's  face  and  said  in  a  very  deceitful 
voice : 

"  Kora,  how  very  pleased  I  really  am  to  see  you  at 
this  moment.  What  do  you  think  of  this  beautiful  bird 
that  is  here  by  my  side?  " 

Saying  this,  the  serpent,  without  waiting  to  hear  Kora's 
opinion,  took  hold  of  the  bird's  wing  and  introduced  her 
to  Kora. 


182  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

As  Kasawayo's  eyes  sparkled  with  delight  and  the 
handsome  youth  bowed  and  kissed  her  tenderly  on  the 
face,  the  jealous  serpent  said  quickly : 

"  See,  Kora,  'tis  but  a  bird,  and  for  all  its  beauty  is 
only  fit  for  flying." 

But,  nevertheless,  the  kiss  that  Kora  gave  the  bird 
was  so  unduly  prolonged,  and  was  so  passionate,  that 
the  disguised  goddess  hung  her  head  and  blushed  up  to 
the  soft  feathers  that  adorned  her  brow!  The  jealous 
serpent  perceiving  this,  and  seeing  that  Kora  was  already 
in  love  with  Kasawayo,  looked  up  and  said : 

"Go  away,  Kora;  Kasawayo  is  my  guest.  To-night 
she  goes  back  again  to  shadowland,  so  I  have  little  time 
with  her." 

"  Ho !  ho !  "  said  Kora ;  "  so  you  want  her  all  for  your- 
self, do  you  ?  " 

Saying  this,  Kora  stared  defiantly  at  the  serpent. 

Without  any  more  ado,  the  serpent  seized  hold  of  the 
frightened  Kasawayo  and  started  off  into  the  deeper 
shadows  of  the  forest. 

In  a  moment  Kora  sprang  forward,  saying: 

"  You  shall  not  take  her  away  from  me ;  well  enough 
I  can  see  that  she  loves  me,  and  not  you !  " 

Then  Kora  lifted  his  big  war-club  and  made  a  desperate 
attack  on  the  serpent.  In  a  moment  the  serpent  had 
lifted  its  hideous  head  and  chanted  forth,  "  Wathi,  wathi, 
noko-buli ! "  As  the  sad  Kora  heard  those  words,  he 
realized  that  the  serpent  was  a  heathen  god.  He  knew 
well  enough  that  he  had  no  power  to  thwart  the  serpent's 
wishes  and  so  save  Kasawayo. 

As  the  serpent  once  more  seized  hold  of  the  goddess, 
she  looked  over  her  shoulder  and  gazed  into  the  eyes  of 
Kora  as  much  as  to  say,  "  O  beautiful  Kora,  I  love  you. 
Yet  must  I  go  away  into  the  forest  with  this  terrible 
serpent-god." 


KASAWAYO  AND  THE  SERPENT      183 

Kora  hung  his  head  for  shame  to  think  that  a  serpent 
had  more  power  than  he  had. 

When  the  god  came  to  his  dwelling-cave,  which  was 
by  the  sea,  he  pulled  Kasawayo  hurriedly  into  the  dark 
beyond  the  big  doorway.  This  great  cave  was  lit  up 
by  a  dim  light  that  was  emitted  from  the  eyes  of  the 
serpent.  Dragging  Kasawayo  over  to  the  far  corner 
he  placed  the  trembling  goddess  on  a  large  lump  of  red 
coral  that  was  carved  into  a  chair.  As  she  sat  there, 
couched  in  the  moonlight  that  crept  through  the  door- 
way, she  trembled  violently,  and  gazed  despairingly  on 
the  serpent.  It  was  then  that  the  serpent-god  crawled 
to  the  far  end  of  the  big  cavern,  and,  raising  his  head 
till  it  touched  the  crystals  of  the  sparkling  roof,  said, 
"  Wathi,  wathi ! "  and  lo,  the  serpent  was  no  longer  a 
serpent,  but  stood  there  before  Kasawayo — a  handsome 
god! 

Kasawayo  said: 

"  Though  you  are  now  turned  into  a  handsome  god, 
still  I  do  not  like  you.  You  do  not  look  as  beautiful 
as  the  Fijian  youth,  Kora." 

On  hearing  this,  the  god  got  into  a  terrible  rage. 
Then,  quickly  cooling  down,  he  said  : 

"If  you  will  only  love  me,  I  will  let  you  walk  through 
the  forest  by  night  in  your  own  shape,  for,  though 
you  are  beautiful,  you  are  not  as  lovely  as  you  were 
when  you  had  a  woman's  form  in  Mbau.  Now  will 
you  love  me  ?  " 

For  a  moment  Kasawayo  sat  couched  in  the  moon- 
shine, thinking  over  what  the  god  Buli-buli  had  said. 
Then  she  looked  up  into  his  glistening  serpent-like  eyes, 
and  said : 

"  I  am  in  your  power,  so  I  will  do  my  best  to  please 
and  love  you." 

Immediately  the  god  heard  Kasawayo   say  this,  he 


184  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

said  in  a  terrible  voice  that  echoed  through  the  hollow 
cavern : 

"  Wathi!  wathi!" 

Before  the  echoes  had  faded  away  Kasawayo  stood 
shining  in  the  moonshine.  She  was  once  more  trans- 
formed back  into  a  beautiful  goddess. 

Being  a  heathen  serpent-god,  and  having  none  of  the 
passions  of  the  mortals,  Buli-buli  simply  gazed  upon 
Kasawayo,  and  said : 

"  Now  that  I  have  made  you  a  goddess  again,  you 
must  sit  here  in  this  cavern  and  sing  to  me  all  through 
the  day  and  all  through  the  night." 

And  so  for  many  days  and  nights  Kasawayo  sang 
and  sang  till  her  throat  was  tired.  At  length  her  heart 
began  to  long  for  the  voice  of  Kora,  and  her  eyes  for 
one  sight  of  his  beauty. 

One  evening,  as  the  sun  was  setting,  she  said  to  the 
god  Buli-buli,  who  was  at  that  moment  dozing  by  the 
cavern's  door: 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  tired  of  singing  away  in  this  cave ; 
though  I  love  you,  Buli-buli,  still  I  feel  that  I  would  like 
to  go  out  into  the  forest  by  night  alone." 

For  a  moment  the  god  looked  at  Kasawayo,  growled, 
and  then  said : 

"  If  you  go  out  into  the  forest  alone,  I  shall  be  turned 
into  a  serpent  again  till  you  come  back;  and,  were  you 
to  be  unfaithful  to  me  by  allowing  the  lips  of  a  mortal 
to  touch  your  own,  I  should  be  doomed  to  remain  ever 
in  the  shape  of  a  serpent." 

Saying  this,  the  god  looked  fiercely  at  Kasawayo,  as 
though  he  would  read  her  soul. 

Kasawayo,  being  a  true  Fijian  goddess-woman,  put 
her  most  innocent  look  into  her  bright  eyes. 

Then  the  god  continued: 

"  Now,  will  you  promise  me  that,  if  I  let  you  go  out 


KASAWAYO  AND  THE  SERPENT      185 

into  the  forest  alone,  you  will  be  faithful  and  return 
again  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  promise  faithfully  that  I  will  be  true  to 
you  and  return  to  the  cave  again."  Saying  this, 
Kasawayo's  heart  beat  violently  with  joy  at  the  thought 
that  she  might  meet  the  handsome  Kora  once  more. 

Buli-buli  looked  up  into  her  face  for  a  long  while, 
then  said : 

"  The  sun  has  dipped  his  head  into  the  nioani  aili 
(ocean)  ;  the  stars  are  marching  across  the  plains  of 
shadowland ;  go,  Kasawayo,  into  the  forest  alone !  " 

Kasawayo  jumped  to  her  feet,  delight  shining  in  her 
dark  eyes.  As  she  passed  out  of  the  cavern,  she  looked 
over  her  shoulder  to  bid  farewell  to  the  god,  but  she 
only  saw  a  huge  serpent  crawling  on  its  spotted  belly 
across  the  floor  of  the  cave. 

Directly  she  arrived  outside  the  cavern  she  ran  away 
at  full  speed  into  the  moonlit  forest.  She  was  indeed 
beautiful  to  look  upon.  Her  hair  hung  in  thick,  curling 
tresses  down  to  her  smooth  brown  back,  and  often  got 
entangled  in  her  soft  feet  as  she  ran.  A  girdle  of  sweet- 
scented  flowers  swathed  her  loins.  As  she  ran  along, 
the  forest  winds  put  out  their  spirit  fingers,  lifted  her 
masses  of  hair  tenderly,  and  looked  at  her  beautiful 
form;  and  the  moo-moo  flowers  scented  her  body  as 
she  brushed  past.  Coming  to  the  hollows,  where  grew 
the  taro  and  the  fruits  of  the  mortals,  she  turned  aside 
and  went  inland.  For  she  heard  the  laughter  of  the 
little  mortal-children  in  the  villages  and  the  sounds  of 
drums  beating.  Her  heart  fluttered  as  she  heard  those 
mortal  noises,  and  knew  that  the  forest  high  chiefs  were 
worshipping  their  Meke  idols  beneath  the  big  crimson 
blossoms  of  the  ndrala-trees. 

"  Tani !  Vanaka !  O  Le  saka ! "  were  the  words  that 
came  to  her  ears  like  echoes  of  some  far-away  memory. 


186  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

A  great  longing  came  to  her  soul.  She  felt  that  she 
would  love  to  go  into  the  village  that  was  just  by  and 
look  upon  the  faces  of  the  mortals.  But  she  stifled  the 
feeling,  for  had  she  not  promised  the  god  Buli-buli  to 
keep  away  from  them? 

She  had  not  gone  far  down  the  little  track  that  led 
away  from  the  native  village,  when  she  came  to  a  moon- 
lit space  that  was  just  by  a  forest  lagoon.  She  knew  not 
why  it  was,  but  her  heart  beat  rapidly  as  she  crept  nearer 
and  nearer.  And  no  wonder,  for  there,  sitting  on  a 
mossy  stump  of  a  dead  breadfruit  tree,  with  head  bowed 
with  grief,  was  Kora. 

Lifting  the  big  palm-leaves  that  brushed  against  her 
face,  Kasawayo  gazed  on  the  weeping  youth  with  loving 
eyes.  Then  in  her  sweetest  accents  she  commenced  to 
sing  this  song : 

"Oh,  love  of  my  life,  like  unto  the  stars 
And  the  winds  and  the  waving  trees, 
And  the   singing  pines  by  the  coral   bars, 
Loud  with  the  voices  of  roaming  seas, 
You  are  to  me,  you  are  to  me ! " 

Kora  slowly  raised  his  head.  For  a  moment  he  gazed 
like  one  who  still  thought  that  he  dreamed.  The  O  Le 
maun  oa  (nightingale)  ceased  to  sing  in  the  backa  trees 
just  overhead,  so  delicious  was  the  warm-throated  melody 
that  Kasawayo  sang.  Then  Kora  started  up  to  his  feet. 
He  realized  that  some  beautiful  goddess  was  singing  to 
him.  He  knew  well  that  no  one  but  his  lost  Kasawayo 
would  have  so  beautiful  a  voice. 

Still  the  goddess  sang  on.  And  as  she  sang  she 
thought  of  the  serpent-god  who  had,  for  her  sake,  been 
transformed  into  a  serpent  so  that  she  might  go  into 
the  forest  alone. 

She  longed  to  rush  forth  from  the  bamboos  and  re- 


KASAWAYO  AND  THE  SERPENT      187 

veal  herself  to  Kora.  But  how  could  she  do  so  when 
she  had  promised  the  serpent-god  to  be  faithful  to  him? 
So  she  still  remained  hidden,  and  sang  on. 

Kora  listened  to  her  voice  with  delight.  Then  he 
cried  out : 

"  Kasawayo !  I  know  'tis  you  who  sing ;  come  forth 
and  let  me  see  you." 

On  hearing  the  voice  of  the  youth  calling  her,  so 
strong  was  her  love  that  she  almost  rushed  forward. 
For  a  moment  she  controlled  the  awful  impulse,  and 
started  to  sing  once  more,  and  these  were  the  words  of 
her  song: 

"  Oh,  Kora,  my  beloved,  your  eyes  are  like  the  moo-moo  flowers ; 
Your  form  is  as  straight  as  a  young  coco-palm. 
So  my  heart,  my  heart  is  on  fire  with  thoughts  of  love; 
Yet  I  dare  not  reveal  the  beauty  of  my  face  to  you; 
For,  oh,  listen  to  me !    I  have  made  a  vow  to  the  serpent-god ; 
And  I  must  not  reveal  my  beautiful  face  to  your  sweeter  eyes. 
Oh,  Kora,  my  heart  is  heavy  with  grief ;  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

Then  Kora  also  made  up  a  song;  and  the  words  of  the 
song  were  like  unto  this : 

"  Oh,  come  to  me,  my  Kasawayo,  for  my  heart  is  full  of  joy. 
Vinaka !    O  loved  one,  all  praise  to  Mbete  and  the  great  Ndengi 

of  Mbau 

To  think  that  you  love  me — oh,  to  think  that  you  love  me ! 
And  oh,  Kasawayo,  if  two  people  love,  who  shall  deny  them? 
Cannot  I  see  thy  face,  look  into  thine  eyes,  and  love  thy  form, 

Kasawayo  ?  " 

Then  Kasawayo  answered  in  this  wise: 
"HI  show  you  my  face,  will  you  promise  not  to  kiss 
me,  or  say  those  beautiful  words  of  love  that  I  would 
so  love  to  hear  you  say?  For,  Kora,  dear  one,  I  am 
a  goddess,  and,  though  I  have  a  heart  that  feels  some 
of  the  passions  of  the  mortals,  it  is  sinful  that  I  should 
love  a  mortal." 


188  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

Saying  this,  Kasawayo  looked  about  her,  and  whispered 
through  the  silence  of  the  bushes: 

"  Hush,  Kora,  listen.  The  serpent-god  may  be  able 
to  know  what  I  am  doing,  though  his  eyes  be  far  away !  " 

"  O  Kasawayo,  I  promise  to  do  as  you  wish,"  re- 
sponded the  handsome  youth. 

Then  Kora  commenced  to  sing  his  beautiful  song,  as 
with  complete  trust  Kasawayo  stepped  forth  from  the 
bamboo  trees  and  stood  before  the  youth  in  all  her  love- 
liness ! 

For  a  moment  the  young  chief  Kora  placed  his  hands 
over  his  eyes.  The  beauty  of  Kasawayo  was  so  dazzling 
that  he  dared  not  gaze  upon  her  without  wanting  to 
embrace  her.  At  length,  feeling  that  he  could  with- 
stand the  temptation  of  her  sight  without  risk,  he  un- 
covered his  eyes.  Then  the  youth  and  the  goddess  gazed 
upon  each  other  in  perfect  stillness  as  though  they  were 
perfect  figures  of  cold  carven  stone,  so  entranced  were 
they  with  the  sight  of  each  other's  beauty. 

The  goddess  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  With 
all  the  sweet  frailness  that  is  born  of  woman,  she,  not- 
withstanding that  she  was  a  goddess,  put  forth  her  beauti- 
ful face  and  said: 

"  O  Kora  mine,  let  us  each  close  our  eyes,  and  then, 
inclining  our  forms  one  towards  the  other,  imagine  that 
we  are  lovers  kissing." 

Kora  replied: 

"  O  Kasawayo,  I  will  do  this  that  you  ask  of  me,  but 
still  am  I  sad  to  think  that  the  meeting  of  our  lips  is 
only  to  be  imagined.  For  we  mortals  love  to  feel  the 
beauty  of  the  maiden  that  we  love;  for,  though  the 
imagination  is  always  more  beautiful  than  the  reality, 
still  we  love  the  beauty  and  sorrow  that  we  see  more 
than  the  heaven  that  we  imagine." 

Saying  this,  Kora  sighed  and  closed  his  eyes.     Bend- 


KASAWAYO  AND  THE  SERPENT       189 

ing  forward,  he  stretched  out  his  hands,  and  then,  kissing 
the  air  fondly  with  his  impassioned  lips,  tried  to  imagine 
that  he  held  the  beautiful  Kasawayo  in  his  arms. 

And  Kasawayo  the  spirit-woman? — she  did  likewise. 
Only  for  a  few  moments  did  they  both  stand  wrapt  in 
the  ecstasy  of  their  imagination.  The  forest  winds  sighed 
amorously  through  the  branches  of  the  ndralas,  kissing 
Kasawayo's  shining  tresses  that  hung  around  her  like  a 
tent  as  her  form  inclined  towards  Kora.  Then,  lo! 
the  magic  fingers  of  the  winds,  that  were  caressing 
Kasawayo's  tresses,  accidentally  brushed  them  against 
the  bare  knees  of  the  inclining,  impassioned  Kora!  At 
this  the  young  chief,  through  the  ecstatic  joy  of  his  feel- 
ings, lost  his  balance  and,  stumbling  over  a  little  twig, 
fell  forward  into  the  outstretched  arms  of  Kasawayo! 

For  a  moment  their  lips  met  in  a  passionate  kiss; 
their  eyes,  out  of  which  shone  the  light  of  their  love, 
gazed  fondly  upon  each  other. 

The  travelling  fingers  of  the  winds  wailed  a  tender, 
love-like  adagio  across  the  night's  brooding  harp  of 
mighty  forest  trees.  Suddenly  Kasawayo's  lips  gave 
forth  a  scream.  Alas!  she  had  remembered  her  promise 
to  the  serpent-god. 

As  remembrance  came  to  her,  her  arms,  that  were 
still  folded  round  the  handsome  Kora  in  a  fond  embrace, 
shrivelled  up,  lo! — changed  into  a  bird's  wings. 

The  serpent-god,  far  away  in  his  cave,  knew  what 
Kasawayo  was  doing!  Full  of  jealousy  and  hate,  he 
waited  for  the  lovers  to  kiss  again.  But  Kasawayo, 
who  also  knew  the  magic  of  seeing  and  knowing  things 
that  were  far  away,  looked  up  into  Kora's  eyes  and  said : 
"  O  my  Kora,  kiss  me  not  again ;  should  you  do  so, 
the  serpent  will  be  able  to  turn  my  body,  that  you  so 
love,  into  that  of  a  bird." 

Directly  Kora  heard  the  scream  and   felt  the  rustle 


190  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

of  the  feathery  wings  about  his  shoulders,  he  stepped 
apart.  Looking  into  Kasawayo's  eyes,  he  said : 

"  I  will  do  as  you  wish,  nor  would  the  thing  have 
happened  but  for  the  interference  of  the  winds  and  the 
twig  of  the  ndrala-bush.  But  still  it  matters  not;  we 
will  thwart  the  serpent-god's  spite.  You  are  still  very 
beautiful,  though  your  arms  have  changed  into  the  wings 
of  a  bird." 

As  Kora  whispered  this  into  her  ears,  Kasawayo 
ceased  weeping,  gazed  up  into  his  eyes,  and  murmured : 

"  Am  I  really  as  lovely  as  I  was  before  I  had  these 
wings  ?  " 

Saying  this,  Kasawayo  spread  out  the  wings,  and  in 
doing  so  revealed  the  topmost  curves  of  her  bosom  to 
Kora's  eyes.  So  exquisite  was  the  sight  to  the  youth, 
that  in  a  moment  of  forgetfulness  he  stepped  forward 
to  kiss  her  once  again  on  her  lips  and  so  assure  her  of 
his  love. 

Kasawayo,  seeing  the  brightness  of  his  eyes,  and  guess- 
ing that  which  he  was  about  to  do,  ran  backwards  a 
few  steps.  Putting  her  wings  out,  she  cried  : 

"  O  Kora,  kiss  me  not,  for  if  you  do  I  shall  lose  these 
limbs  that  you  have  touched  and  told  me  are  so 
beautiful!" 

Kora,  in  the  distraction  of  not  being  able  to  fold  her 
in  his  arms  and  kiss  her  lips,  placed  his  hand  to  his 
eyes  and  stared  across  the  moonlit  forest  in  deep  thought. 
Then,  turning  to  Kasawayo,  he  said : 

"Where  is  this  terrible  serpent-god?  I  am  deter- 
mined to  have  your  love  and  kisses.  I  will  go  and  kill 
the  serpent." 

Saying  this,  Kora  drew  his  stalwart  form  up  to  its 
full  height,  and,  taking  hold  of  his  big  war-club,  swung 
it  around  his  handsome  head  three  times!  Kasawayo, 
who  possessed  all  the  beautiful  cunning  that  mortal 


KASAWAYO  AND  THE  SERPENT      191 

woman  reveals  when  she  would  protect  the  one  she  loves, 
gazed  upon  the  youth  with  thoughtful  eyes. 

"  Kora,  my  beloved,  you  are  only  a  mortal;  and, 
though  I  know  well  that  you  are  brave  and  strong,  still 
my  heart  is  heavy  at  the  thought  of  your  meeting  the 
serpent-god  in  combat." 

Side  by  side  the  lovers  walked  through  the  forest 
and  said  not  a  word  to  each  other.  Kasawayo,  who 
longed  to  feel  Kora's  arms  about  her,  said  not  a  word, 
because  in  her  heart  she  knew  that  her  companion  was 
but  a  weak  mortal,  and  so  might  be  tempted  to  do  the 
very  thing  that  would  enable  the  god  to  turn  her  into 
a  complete  bird  again. 

Many  times  did  Kora  glance  sideways  at  her  beauty, 
and  his  frame  was  thrilled  with  thoughts  of  love.  At 
length  he  looked  around  at  Kasawayo,  who,  truth  to  tell, 
had  slipped  a  little  into  the  rear  so  as  to  help  Kora  to 
resist  temptation.  Then  he  said : 

"  O  lovely  spirit  from  shadowland,  I  can  stand  this 
delay  no  longer.  If  you  do  not  let  me  go  and  fight  the 
serpent,  I  am  quite  certain  that  I  shall  embrace  and 
kiss  you." 

"  So  be  it !  "  said  the  sad  spirit-woman,  for  she  too 
longed  for  the  kisses  of  that  mortal  youth. 

With  her  heart  trembling  violently  with  a  great  fear, 
Kasawayo  said :  "  Come  on !  come !  "  and,  turning  round 
again,  led  Kora  towards  the  sea  in  the  direction  of  the 
serpent-god's  cavern. 

As  they  walked  along,  Kasawayo's  wings  drooped  and 
almost  covered  the  delicate  flanks  of  her  form.  Kora, 
who  enviously  watched  every  step  of  her  soft  feet  as 
they  stirred  the  moonlit  flowers  of  the  forest  floor,  sighed 
and  sighed  at  the  thought  of  the  serpent-god's  power. 
Often  as  they  tramped  along,  Kora  had  to  hide  his  eyes 
with  one  of  his  hands,  for,  as  Kasawayo  turned  round 


192  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

the  bends  of  the  twining  forest  track,  one  wing  would 
flop  slightly  sideways  and  so  reveal  the  smoothness  and 
exquisite  beauty  of  her  form. 

Presently  they  arrived  at  the  mossy  slopes  that  led 
down  to  the  seashore.  For  a  moment  they  both 
stood  still  and  gazed  through  the  forest  breadfruit 
trees  out  upon  the  silvered  moonlit  waters  of  the 
sea. 

Suddenly  Kasawayo  cried  out: 

"  Oh,  hark !  though  the  ocean  is  calm,  I  can  hear  the 
moaning  of  the  thundering  seas  beating  against  the 
barriers  of  the  serpent-god's  cavern."  Then,  with  a  deep 
sigh,  she  continued :  "  O  Kora,  that  noise  that  we  hear 
is  a  sure  sign  that  the  serpent  is  in  a  terrible  passion 
because  I  love  you.  Oh,  what  shall  we  do,  what  shall 
we  do?" 

She  gazed  into  Kora's  eyes  with  tenderness,  for  the 
beauty  of  mortality  and  immortality  shone  in  the  same 
eye-light. 

Suddenly,  with  a  cry  of  delight,  as  a  thought  came  to 
her,  she  said : 

"  O  my  beloved  Chief,  I  have  just  thought  how  we 
can  outwit  the  serpent-god.  For  listen!  though  you  die, 
still  you  will  be  mine,  for,  being  a  spirit,  I  shall  then 
be  able  to  take  you  away  to  shadowland." 

As  the  handsome  Fijian  chief  listened,  he  lifted  his 
war-club  and  half  imagined  that  he  was  already  fighting 
the  serpent-god. 

Kasawayo  gazed  with  admiration  upon  his  herculean 
frame,  and  sighed  at  the  thought  that  she  would  never 
possess  him  in  a  mortal  state.  Then  she  thought  like 
unto  this : 

"  But,  still,  I  shall  have  his  spirit  in  shadowland,  and, 
though  even  goddesses  cannot  have  all  they  want,  I  shall 
be  satisfied  with  the  spirit  of  so  beautiful  a  youth,  and, 


KASAWAYO  AND  THE  SERPENT       193 

more,  I  can  fold  him  in  my  arms  and  imagine  he  is  a 
beautiful  mortal." 

Her  reflections  were  suddenly  interrupted  by  Kora, 
who  gazed  upon  her  with  impassioned  glance,  and  said : 

"  Kasawayo,  tell  me  where  this  cavern  is.  I  would 
meet  the  serpent  at  once,  and,  vanquishing  it  in  combat, 
possess  your  love  and  kisses." 

Kasawayo  looked  earnestly  into  Kora's  eyes,  then, 
falling  forward  on  one  of  her  rounded  knees,  and  holding 
a  small  bamboo  branch  in  front  of  her  bosom  so  that 
their  figures  should  be  shielded  from  temptation,  said : 

"  Kora,  O  beloved,  let  us  gaze  upon  each  other  a 
moment,  for  methinks  it  will  be  the  last  time  I  can  drink 
in  your  mortal  beauty  with  these  eyes." 

So  for  a  little  while  did  they  kneel  together,  inclining 
their  figures  one  towards  the  other.  Poor  Kora,  who 
was  so  truly  mortal,  gently  blew  his  breath  so  that  it 
would  reach  Kasawayo's  tresses.  As  the  soft,  jetty  curls 
swayed  gently  to  and  fro  to  the  zephyrs  that  crept  from 
his  impassioned  lips  and  revealed  the  curves  of  the  god- 
dess's dimpled  shoulders,  he  said: 

"  O  Kasawayo,  'tis  sweet  to  breathe  so,  and  know  that 
at  least  my  breathing  caresses  your  loveliness." 

"Ah  me!"  softly  responded  Kasawayo,  as  she,  toor 
breathed  likewise,  blowing  the  curls  of  Kora's  forehead 
to  and  fro  with  the  warm  breath  of  her  passion.  The 
very  branches  of  the  tall  bamboos  and  palms  seemed  to 
bend  in  leafy  sympathy  over  them  as  they  knelt  and 
gazed  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"  May  I  not  touch,  with  my  finger  outstretched  so, 
the  softest  dimple  of  your  throat,  Kasawayo?" 

Kasawayo  trembled  from  head  to  feet  and  nearly  fell 
forward  at  the  pleading  of  the  one  whom  she  so  much 
loved.  And  it  is  rumoured  that  all  the  maidens  who  slept 
at  that  moment  in  the  native  village  of  Nadranga,  which 


194  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

is  on  the  banks  of  the  river  a  mile  away,  dreamed  of 
the  one  youth  who  truly  loved  them,  not  only  for  their 
beauty,  but  for  the  light  of  shadowland  that  shone  in 
their  eyes. 

It  so  happened  that  Kora,  seeing  the  weakness  of 
Kasawayo,  as  she  nearly  fell  forward  into  his  arms, 
quickly  came  to  the  rescue ;  for  he  at  once  ceased  blowing 
his  breath  into  the  tangled  mass  of  hair  that  fell  on  the 
goddess's  bosom.  Then  he  swiftly  placed  his  hand  be- 
fore his  eyes,  and  hid  from  Kasawayo's  sight  the  light 
that  he  knew  would  prove  their  undoing  if  he  persisted 
in  gazing  upon  her. 

Leaping  to  his  feet  he  said : 

"  Come,  O  my  loved  one,  let  me  go  and  vanquish  this 
serpent-god.  I  never  knew  that  I  could  hate  a  god  so 
much  as  I  now  hate  the  god  who  has  come  between  us." 

Kasawayo  led  the  way  down  the  slope.  In  a  few 
moments  they  both  stood,  like  statues  of  despair,  outside 
the  door  of  the  serpent-god's  cavern. 

"  Come  forth,  O  serpent !  "  said  Kora,  as  he  struck 
his  war-club  a  mighty  blow  against  the  coral  rocks  that 
stood  like  pillars  at  the  awful  doorway. 

Kasawayo,  remembering  how  she  had  promised  to  be 
faithful  to  the  god,  trembled  as  her  lover  once  more 
struck  the  coral-pillars,  till  one  of  them  fell  crash  at  her 
feet. 

It  was  then  that  a  great,  roaring  sound,  and  what 
sounded  like  the  angry  lashing  of  a  mighty  tail,  came 
out  from  the  cavern's  gloom.  Then  the  serpent's  huge 
head  appeared  at  the  cavern's  door.  In  a  moment  Kora 
bravely  sprang  forward,  and  the  battle  began. 

Silently  Kasawayo  watched.  She  knew  that  Kora 
was  mortal,  and  so  had  little  chance  in  such  an  unequal 
combat.  So  well  did  she  know  how  the  battle  would  go, 
that  she  did  not  even  cry  out  when  the  serpent's  tail 


KASAWAYO  AND  THE  SEKPENT       195 

gave  the  brave  Kora  a  terrible  blow  that  stretched  him 
dead  at  her  feet.  For  a  moment  she  watched  with  a 
strange  look  in  her  eyes.  She  knew  that,  did  he  not 
truly  love  her,  he  would  still  lie  as  one  dead.  But  it  was 
not  so,  for,  as  she  watched,  and  the  moonlight  touched 
Kora's  dead  face,  his  shadow  left  his  mortal  body  and 
leapt  straightway  into  Kasawayo's  outstretched  arms. 
The  serpent-god,  seeing  this  happen  before  his  eyes, 
roared  with  rage  till  the  cavern  shook  and  the  rocks 
around  trembled  as  though  from  an  earthquake.  Going 
forward  on  his  belly,  the  god  slashed  at  Kora's  body 
with  his  tail.  But  it  was  only  a  dead  body,  and  could 
not  be  hurt  more  than  death  had  hurt  it.  Looking  up, 
in  his  fearful  rage,  he  saw  Kasawayo  and  Kora's  spirit 
hand  in  hand  as  they  rushed  away  along  the  seashore. 

The  first  pale  glimmer  of  dawn  tinted  the  eastern 
skyline,  and  yet  a  few  stars  were  shining,  when  the  little 
Fijian  children  awoke  in  the  villages.  They  all  came 
running  out  of  the  hut  doors  in  the  village  of  Rumbo- 
Rumbo. 

There  was  not  a  breath  of  wind  stirring  the  palm  trees 
that  sheltered  their  hut  groves.  So  they  rushed  off  fast 
towards  the  sea  to  catch  the  fish  in  the  shore  lagoons. 
Suddenly,  as  they  ran  along  and  the  Lukas  (parrots) 
wheeled  across  the  skies  from  the  far-off  mountains,  they 
all  stood  perfectly  still.  It  was  a  wonderful  sight  that 
met  their  gaze.  For  there,  up  in  the  sky,  they  distinctly 
saw  the  spirits  of  Kasawayo  and  Kora,  with  their  large 
wings  outspread,  as  they  faded  away  with  the  stars  far-off 
over  the  seas. 

And  to  this  very  day,  by  the  hut  fires  of  the  native 
villages,  the  frizzly-headed  old  chiefs  tell  the  children 
how  the  handsome  warrior  Kora  was  seen  in  the  arms 
of  the  beautiful  Kasawayo,  as  they  passed  away,  flying 


196  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

together  into  shadowland — ages  and  ages  ago.  And  still 
the  Fijians  gaze  with  eyes  of  awe  and  complete  rever- 
ence at  the  serpents  that  glide  across  the  forest  floor 
of  their  lovely  isles.  And  if  a  chief  should  kill  a  bird 
with  gold  tipping  its  wings,  loud  are  their  lamentations. 

A  few  days  after  my  experiences  in  Fiji,  I  secured  a 
berth  on  a  fore-and-aft  schooner  that  was  bound  for 
Samoa.  After  the  usual  discomfiture  and  rebellious  irri- 
tation to  one  of  my  temperament  when  obeying  the  orders 
of  disciplinary  shipboard  life,  I  arrived  at  Apia.  The 
skipper,  who  had  relieved  the  monotony  of  the  voyage 
by  telling  me  of  his  experiences  when  he  sailed  as  mate 
tinder  the  notorious  Captain  Bully  Hayes,  gave  me  sev- 
eral pounds  above  my  set  wages,  thus  showing  his  ap- 
preciation of  my  violin-playing.  I  had  often  done  my 
level  best  to  extemporize  suitable  obligato  to  his  vocal 
attempts  when  he  invited  me  into  the  stuffy  cuddy  after 
eight  bells.  The  mate  died  on  the  voyage  across,  and 
when  we  buried  him  in  his  hammock-shroud,  the  skipper, 
who  read  the  burial  service,  had  the  best  that  was  in 
him  awakened.  Like  most  men  he  had  a  kind,  brotherly 
side  to  hjs  rough  exterior,  and,  as  is  usual  with  most 
men,  his  congenial  side  only  revealed  itself  through  feel- 
ing the  near  presence  of  the  cold,  poetic  hand  of  death. 
I  know  his  voice  was  tremulous  when  he  said,  "  Let 
go ! "  and  we  softly  dropped  "  Scotty "  the  mate  into 
the  calm  depths  of  the  hot,  tropic  seas,  where  he  left 
a  few  bubbles  behind  him.  Just  before  Scotty  died,  I 
held  his  hand  and  said  a  few  kind  things,  and  I  like  to 
fancy  that  his  soul  remembered  and  touched  the  skipper's 
heart  with  a  generous  impulse  so  that  I  might  arrive 
in  Samoa  with  plenty  of  cash  in  my  pocket. 

Being  wealthy  and  having  an  hereditary  hatred  for 
work,  I  mooched  about  for  days,  admiring  the  semi- 


KASAWAYO  AND  THE  SERPENT       197 

poetic  life  of  the  natives,  enjoying  the  generous  fellow- 
ship of  the  truest  democracy  the  world  ever  harboured 
or  is  ever  likely  to  see.  Then  I  met  an  aged  mat- 
worshipper.  First,  I  must  say  that  mat-worship  was  a 
strange  old  Samoan  custom  that  was  still  believed  in 
by  the  aged  chiefs  when  I  was  a  boy.  A  bit  of  old 
tappa-cloth  or  fibre  carpet  was  regarded  as  a  sacred 
object  (etua). 

This  etua  was  supposed  to  be  a  wonderful  talisman,  a 
kind  of  Aladdin's  lamp;  it  was  the  "Open  Sesame" 
to  all  its  worshippers'  hopes  on  earth  and  in  the  under- 
world life-to-be.  I  became  deeply  interested  in  those 
old  mats,  my  susceptibilities  being  aroused  much  the 
same  as  are  the  susceptibilities  of  those  who  visit  the 
ruins  of  ancient  Rome  and  Pompeii.  The  mat-worshipper 
with  whom  I  became  acquainted  was  an  aged  chief  who 
lived  near  Safata  village.  He  possessed  one  of  the  afore- 
said revered  objects.  There  it  hung,  just  over  his  sleep- 
ing-couch in  his  hut.  Through  being  repeatedly  kissed 
and  rubbed  by  the  chief  and  his  ancestors,  for  Heaven 
only  knows  how  many  generations,  it  was  dilapidated 
and  threadbare.  I  recall  the  very  light  that  shone  in  that 
aged  chief's  eyes  as  he  gazed  on  his  sacred  mat.  Though 
very  aged  he  was  still  a  fine  distinguished-looking  old 
man.  A  vivid  scar  stained  his  well-curved,  tawny  shoul- 
ders, for  he  had  been  a  great  warrior  in  his  early  days. 
Throwing  the  tribal  insignia  of  knighthood  (a  large 
tappa-cloth  rug  of  beautiful  design)  over  his  shoulders, 
he  drew  himself  up  in  a  majestic  manner,  and  gave  me 
a  half -critical  glance  of  defiance  as  I  held  my  nose — for 
that  old  mat  smelt  like  the  unclean  hide  of  a  mangy  dog. 
It  was,  to  him,  the  most  romantic  and  sacred  of  relics 
and  its  odour  exquisite  incense!  Young  as  I  was,  my 
curiosity  was  aroused. 

"What  is  it  for?     Why  so  beautiful?"  I  inquired. 


198  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

Whereupon  the  old  chief's  tattooed  brow  puckered  up, 
looking  like  a  piece  of  parchment  covered  with  hiero- 
glyphics. He  gazed  upon  me  half  in  pity,  half  in  scorn. 
Once  more  he  reverentially  gazed  upon  the  mat.  Then 
in  pigeon  English,  and  with  many  half-childish  gesticula- 
tions, he  endeavoured  to  enlighten  my  profound  igno- 
rance as  to  the  hidden  virtues  of  that  threadbare  symbol 
of  the  beautiful. 

"'It  am  great  god-mat,  belonga  to  great  chief  only. 
You  white  man,  but  all-e-samee  you  fool,  you  not  one 
great  chief,  you  no  got  mat — eh?  " 

So  saying,  he  reverently  lifted  the  mat  from  the  wall- 
nail  and  carried  it  outside  the  hut,  where  I  discovered 
that  it  was  not  such  a  dirty  old  bit  of  rubbish  after  all. 
I  quickly  cast  aside  the  assumed  reverential  aspect  with 
which  I  had  masked  myself  that  I  might  hide  my  boyish 
levity.  For,  suddenly,  I  too  gazed  with  genuine  interest 
on  that  mouldy  object.  Lo!  particles  of  its  threadbare- 
ness  glistened,  shone  in  the  sunlight!  A  tender  feeling 
came  to  me  for  that  dirty  old  bit  of  matting  when  I  did 
exactly  as  the  old  native  bade  me — touched  with  my 
fingers  the  shining  skeins  that  waved  among  its  coarse 
fibres :  it  was  the  hair  of  some  dead  woman !  It  appeared 
that  some  ancestress  of  the  old  chief's  had  imparadised 
that  relic,  for  there  shone  her  hair  that  had  been  deli- 
cately, cleverly  woven  into  the  fibres  of  his  sacred  mat. 

I  was  greatly  impressed  by  that  old  mat's  secret.  Often 
in  my  world-wide  travels  I  have  been  asked  to  inspect 
the  heirlooms  of  great  families  and  the  relics  of  faded 
dynasties,  but  nothing  seems  to  have  affected  me  or 
aroused  my  admiration  as  that  old  mat  and  the  pride  of 
its  possessor  did. 

It  was  about  this  period  that  I  met  another  character 
whom  I  found  quite  as  interesting  as  my  friend  who 


KASAWAYO  AND  THE  SERPENT      199 

owned  the  sacred  mat.     This  new  character  was  a  poet. 

"  Talof a !  Tusitala !  "  said  the  wrinkled  native  poet 
when  he  welcomed  me  into  his  humble  homestead. 

Then  I  played  him  several  heathen  strains  on  my  violin. 
His  profile  was  of  a  Dantesque  type,  the  nose  finely 
curved,  and  the  deep-set  eyes  full  of  intellect.  He  pros- 
trated himself  at  my  feet  when  I  had  finished  playing 
to  him.  I  can  never  feel  grateful  enough  to  the  old 
mat-worshipper  for  introducing  that  mighty  poet  to  me. 
The  wonderful  tales  he  told  and  the  delight  I  derived 
from  his  friendship  (for  we  went  troubadouring  to- 
gether), have  made  me  wealthy  in  many  a  memory  since. 

In  Part  II  of  this  Volume  I  will  endeavour  to  give 
an  impression  of  my  memory  of  O  Le  Langi,  the  pagan 
poet. 


Part  Two 


PART  TWO 


CHAPTER  X.     O  LE  LANGI  THE  PAGAN  POET 

A   Pagan   Poet — Influence  of   Byron  and  Keats — Star- 
myths — Enchanted  Crab. 

The  imaged  stars  the  oceans  knew  a  million  years  ago 
.Are  dancing  in  the  eyes  of  all  the  cities  that  I  know! 
The  man  who  sails  to  heathenland  to  preach  the  newest  creed 
Sees  in  the  happy  pagan's  eyes  his  own  soul's,  greatest  need. 
But  these  are  aimless  rhymes  and  will  be  understood  by  few, 
Because  I  am  the  poet  of  those  old  things  men  call  new. 

IN  the  shadowland  regions  of  a  barbarian  poet's  brain 
flows  the  river  Lethe  that  murmurs  the  most  subtle 
music  of  sentient  Nature.  Of  such  a  poet  I  shall  tell 
in  the  following  pages,  one  whom  I  instinctively  under- 
stood. For  I  also  have  stood  in  the  primeval  forest 
and  "  heard  the  silent  thunders  of  the  leaves  "  and  seen 
the  lightnings  of  a  wild  bird's  eyes,  and  God's  hand 
carving  a  thousand  pillars  for  the  temples  of  Nature, 
painting  magical  halls  with  the  storied  history  of  the 
blue  days  and  daubs  of  all  the  dead  sunsets.  Wonderful 
eerie  temples  they  were  too.  I  have  even  been  a  pagan 
and  half  fancied  I  have  seen  the  dead  children  creep 
out  of  the  shadows  and  gaze  around  as  they  heard  the 
sad  songs  and  whisperings  of  those  old  forest  trees.  Nor 
was  I  deaf  to  the  cry  of  anguish  from  the  bleeding  forest 
flowers  as  my  foot  crushed  their  uplifted  faces  of  brief 
enough  beauty.  O  Le  Langi  saw  the  world  with  such 
eyes.  He  was  the  first  poet  of  his  race.  He  was  crammed 
full  of  mythical  light,  his  imagination  touching  with 

203 


204  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

splendour  all  that  his  eyes  gazed  upon.  He  hated  most 
white  men  and  their  wretched  boast  of  advancement. 
He  deeply  read  the  books  of  Nature,  but  threw  the  white 
man's  lotu  books  into  the  sea!  He  too  might  well  have 
cried  out  to  his  chastened  people  who  had  accepted  the 
white  man's  dogmas  and  gifts  of  clothing  from  the 
European  morgues: 

"Lo!  thirty  centuries  of  literature 
Have  curved  your  spines  and  overborne  your  brains." 

O  Le  Langi's  ever  earnest  cry  was : 

Lo!  centuries  of  grand  belief  in  gods 

Have  chasteneth  us;  my  mind  a  forest  is 

Of  budding-light   and  thought's  bright   spirit-flowers 

And  faery-wings  of  Beauty's  moving  hours. 

I  am  the  darker-age  grown  old  and  thin — 

Personified,  tattooed  from  toes  to  chin, 

And  for  you  and  your  God  care  not  one  pin! 

Such  was  O  Le  Langi's  cry  to  the  white  men — O  Le 
Langi,  who  stands  out  like  some  wonderful,  tattooed 
bas-relief  in  the  background  of  my  memory. 

O  Le  Langi  means  Chief  of  the  Heavens,  and,  so  far 
as  his  handsome  physique  and  fine,  expressive  face  were 
concerned,  he  deserved  that  name.  He  was  a  fine  sample 
of  his  race.  Though  he  lived  in  Samoa,  he  was  a  full- 
blooded  Marquesan,  having  emigrated  from  Nuka-hiva 
to  Samoa  in  his  youth.  His  father  had  been  high  chief 
of  Queen  Vaekehu's  royal  bodyguard  when  that  South 
Sea  Semiramis  had  reigned  supreme  over  her  dominions 
and  a  thousand  death-drums  had  called  the  hour  of  the 
sacrificial  festival.  O  Le  Langi's  mother  had  escaped 
from  the  rods  of  the  French  officials  by  beating  a  hasty 
retreat  from  Nuka-hiva  to  Papeete  some  fifty  years  be- 
fore I  met  him.  From  Papeete  she  had  stowed  away 


O  LE  LANGI  THE  PAGAN  POET      205 

in  a  trading  schooner  with  her  three  little  children,  O  Le 
Langi  and  her  two  daughters. 

Both  the  girls  had  succumbed  to  the  privations  and 
terrors  of  some  long  voyage  in  an  open  boat  which  had 
finally  drifted  O  Le  Langi  and  his  mother  to  the  Samoan 
Isles.  The  incidents  of  that  terrible  voyage  O  Le  Langi 
only  hinted  about.  Nor  was  I  one  who  would  attempt 
to  learn  more,  it  being  quite  obvious  to  me  that  the 
sad  old  chief  had  some  strange  idea  that  the  whole  truth 
of  those  days  were  best  kept  a  secret  in  his  own  heart. 

Though  secretive  over  the  tragic  history  that  had 
caused  his  father's  execution  and  his  mother's  flight  from 
her  native  land,  O  Le  Langi  never  tired  of  telling  me 
the  wonders  of  his  tribe,  and  commemorating  in  words 
the  mighty  deeds  of  his  forefathers. 

His  knowledge  of  heathen  mythology  was  marvellous, 
as  were  the  tattooed  armorial  bearings,  the  insignia  of 
blue  blood,  which  were  visible  on  his  massive  chest.  I 
entertained  no  doubt  whatever  as  to  Le  Langi's  royal 
pedigree.  Seeing  that  massive  human  parchment  in- 
scribed with  wondrous  savage  hieroglyhpics,  the  truth 
of  all  he  said  was  perfectly  evident.  I  knew  that  the 
Marquesans  of  royal  blood  had  the  tribal  mottoes  and 
family  crest  tattooed  on  their  sons  before  puberty. 

Langi  looked  liked  some  Greek  god  as  he  stood  on 
his  village  stump,  his  royal  robe  of  the  best  tappa-cloth 
swung  about  his  rosewood-hued,  majestic  frame.  Never 
were  the  graceful,  god-like  shoulders  wholly  covered. 
Even  the  maids,  as  they  listened  to  his  impassioned  ora- 
tory, sighed  as  the  lightnings  of  poetic  imagination  leapt 
from  those  fine  dark  eyes  of  his.  Yes,  old  as  he  was. 
By  profession  he  was  a  travelling  scribe,  a  genuine  South 
Sea  poet.  This  talent  he  had  inherited.  For  I  discovered 
that  his  father  had  once  stood  in  the  barbarian  forums 
of  Tai-o-hae  and  spouted  the  charms  of  his  queen, 


206  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

Vaekehu,  commemorating  in  verse  the  warrior-like 
deeds  of  the  many  brief  kings  who  had  ascended  her 
throne — and  their  deaths  when  she  had  tired  of  them. 

His  temperament  was  Byronic,  but  at  times  he  would 
become  strangely  imbued  with  the  savage  instincts  of  his 
race,  becoming  extremely  bitter  and  cynical  when  his 
fortunes  were  at  a  low  ebb.  For  I  must  confess  he  had 
a  large  share  of  the  commercial  spirit.  This  much  I 
noticed  when  he  looked  into  the  coco-nut-shell  that  he 
always  passed  around  amongst  his  audience.  Often  one 
could  see  a  poetic  grin  of  extreme  satisfaction  end  the 
handsome  wrinkles  in  a  bunch  up  to  the  northern  territory 
of  his  high,  bald,  intellectual  physiognomy  as  he  counted 
the  collection. 

I  never  tired  of  listening  to  his  way  of  telling  the  poetic 
legends  of  his  island-world  to  the  white  men,  though  I 
must  admit  that,  beyond  myself,  few  men  of  my  colour 
were  interested  in  all  he  had  to  say.  Grins  and  jokes 
and  indecent  remarks  were  their  highest  contribution  in 
the  way  of  interest  or  gifts  when  he  finished  his  poems. 

I  do  not  exaggerate  in  saying  that,  though  Langi  could 
not  speak  our  language  better  than  an  English  child 
of  ten  years,  he  was  conversant  with  the  works  of  many 
of  our  poets.  He  had  an  old  volume  of  Byron.  He 
asked  me  if  I  knew  Keats! 

"  He  great  Tusitala  chief ! "  he  said,  when  I  told  him 
Keats  was  dead.  Then  he  started  off  in  raptures  over 
Saturn  and  the  fallen  deities  and  goddesses  of  Hyperion! 
He  had  also  read  Longfellow's  Hiawatha. 

It  seemed  a  wonderful  thing  that  one  should  leave 
one's  country  and  travel  thousands  of  miles  across  des- 
olate seas  and  pioneer  lands,  to  find,  at  last,  on  a  savage 
isle  of  the  remote  wild  South  Seas,  a  savage  who  loved 
poetry! 

It  is  true  enough  that  the  old  chief  got  little  apprecia- 
tion out  of  his  talent,  but  many  kicks. 


Poor  O  Le  Langi!  None  of  the  natural  chances  of 
the  literary  world  came  his  way  either  by  birth  or  luck. 
He  was  born  in  a  spot  remote  from  all  the  dubious 
possibilities  that  the  civilized  world  offers  to  budding 
aspirants.  He  had  none  to  puff  him.  With  all  his 
astuteness  he  could  seize  on  no  scheme  that  would  ele- 
vate him  on  a  pedestal  in  the  eyes  of  men.  Alas!  no 
starving,  unrecognized  poet  of  another  tribe  expired  on 
his  doorstep,  so  that  the  O  Le  Langi  family  for  successive 
generations  might  write  the  dead  poet's  memoirs,  and  the 
memoirs  of  their  father's  memoirs  concerning  the  poet's 
last  sigh  and  the  benevolence  of  the  O  Le  Langi  family 
to  the  dying  poet's  last  ten  minutes !  Ah  me !  No  pub- 
lisher chanced  upon  sad  O  Le  Langi  till  I,  a  penniless 
traveller,  appeared  on  the  scene,  recognizing  his  wonder- 
ful genius.  And  now  that  his  body  is  dust  beneath  his 
beloved  coco-palms,  I  would  write  these  humble  memoirs 
and  commemorate  the  dust  of  the  greatest  poet  I  ever 
met  on  earth. 

It  is  nothing  against  the  posthumous  poetic  fame  of 
O  Le  Langi  to  say  that  he  had  loved  passionately,  more 
than  twice.  Indeed,  it  is  well  known  that  men  who  are 
not  poets  have  this  mortal  failing. 

The  amorous  weakness  of  O  Le  Langi  was  impressively 
forced  upon  me,  for  did  I  not  walk  beneath  the  coco- 
palms  and  breadfruits  to  that  silent,  hallowed  spot  where 
slumbered  his  sleeping  passions? — the  little  native  ceme- 
tery where  slept  the  dead  women  and  children  that  he 
had  loved. 

It  was  through  this  sad  visit  that  I  heard  so  much; 
for  as  O  Le  Langi  knelt  over  each  littTe  mound  of  crum- 
bling dust  he  kissed  the  earth  and  wept  like  a  child.  I 
saw  at  a  glance  that  the  solid  earth  did  not  hide  from 
the  eyes  of  imagination  the  stretched  figures,  the 
eyes,  the  lips,  and  the  little  fingers  that  he  had  once 
loved. 


208  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

Rising  to  his  feet  he  surveyed  me  with  solemn  eyes, 
then  said: 

"  Ah,  Papalagi,  me  now  grow  old  and  weak;  me  now 
belonger  to  fool  time." 

"  No,  you  don't,  great  O  Le  Langi,  high  chief  of  hand- 
some bearing,  and  mightiest  poet  of  the  South  Seas," 
said  I. 

My  heart  was  truly  sorry  for  the  old  savage  man, 
and  well  I  knew  that  such  flattery  was  worth  its  weight 
in  gold  at  such  a  melancholy  hour. 

Then  I  continued,  as  with  an  effort  he  drew  his  tat- 
tooed shoulders  up  to  their  full  proportion  and  looked 
at  the  sky: 

"  O  Le  Langi,  they  still  live,  those  whom  you  love. 
We  all  live  again." 

"  But  I  no  elision  or  popy  mans  "  ( Christian  or  prayer- 
man),  he  responded  in  a  mournful  voice. 

"  Phew !  O  great  O  Le  Langi !  It  matters  not  a 
tinker's  curse  what  you  are  so  long  as  you  remain  as 
you  are." 

For  a  moment  the  old  chief  looked  about  him,  as 
though  half  in  fright,  then,  seeing  that  we  were  un- 
observed, he  leaned  forward  and  said : 

"  You  nicer  man.  You  no  think  much  of  ole  white- 
beard-Man-big-nose  ?  " 

"Who's  he?"  said  I. 

"  Ole  Misson-loom  mans  (mission-room  man)  who 
mournful  voice,  and  who  look  at  me  and  tell  me  that 
I  one  big  liar !  " 

"Why?"  said  I,  as  the  old  poet's  face  seemed  to 
flush  beneath  its  tawny  hue  at  the  thought  of  such  an 
affront  to  his  veracity. 

"  I  tells  'im  I  wanter  no  go  white  man's  'eaven. 
I  go  'eathen  'eaven.  Then  'e  says,  '  There  am  no  'eathen 
'eaven ;  yous  sinf uls  mans ! ' 


O  LE  LANGI  THE  PAGAN  POET      209 

Saying  this,  the  old  poet  squatted  down  on  his  mat, 
which  he  ever  carried  under  his  arm,  and  inspired  by 
grief  dropped  into  the  following  poetic  effusion.  (The 
sun  had  long  since  set,  and  the  shadows  lay  deep  in 
the  hollows  by  Mutoua.  I  sat  down  beside  him,  and 
as  he  commenced  in  sombre  tones,  the  o  le  manoa  sang 
its  passionate  strain  up  in  the  flamboyants  over  and  over 
again. ) 

I  recall  the  very  note  of  that  strange  night-bird's  song 
as  O  Le  Langi  meandered  on  in  this  wise: 

0  white  mans  from  across  big  waters, 

1  die  not  though  my  body  die,  be  dust: 
The  waving  pauroas,  the  ripening  coco-nuts, 
The  maona  in  the  -forest  singing,  singing, 
The  stars  softly  dropping  from  great  darkness 
To  whisper  as  they  meet  in  deep,  still  lagoons, 
The  deep  caves  by  S avail,  and  Momo, 

The  eyes  of  children  romping  by  the  red  sea-shore 
When  even  falls — /  say,  O  white  mans, 
All  these  things  shall  be  my  dead-heart  dreaming  I 
I  great  chief  of  gods,  so  never  die  dead. 

"  And  will  you  see  your  loved  ones  again  when  you 
die,  O  Le  Langi  ?  " 

My  love  ones  live,  they  are  not  dead. 

They  shine,  their  eyes  in  sky  of  darkness — 

When  sings  the  maona  my  dead  love  makes  stars  four ! 

Her  children  shine  as  eight  stars  far  away. 

She  watch  down  sky,  ever  look  far  north-west, 

As  the  big  night  passeth  over  moani  all 1 

Sometimes  my  love  blink  her  eyes,  and  then 

The  little  stars  all  laugh  and  clap  hands! 

And  lo !  stars  shoot  'cross  sky  out  of  Poluto's  halls. 

"  'Tis  good  O  Le  Langi,  to  know  that  your  loved  one 
watches  with  her  starry  eyes  over  your  dead  children," 
I  responded,  as  the  scented  sea  wind  stirred  the  feathery 

1  The  sea. 


210  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

palms  and  dying  forest  flowers.  The  very  trees  seemed 
to  sigh  some  mystery  into  my  ears  as  the  old  poet  spoke, 
or  rather  chanted  on,  saying  that  which  I  have  so  weakly 
told.  For  a  moment  O  Le  Langi  did  not  answer.  Then, 
with  his  massive  chest  swelling  with  emotion,  he  slowly 
raised  his  handsome,  old  wrinkled  face.  He  looked  like 
some  marvellous  bronze  statue  as  he  lifted  his  head  and 
chin  skyward.  I  dared  not  speak  as  I  saw  him  lift  his 
arm  and,  with  hand  archwise  over  his  eyes,  stare  at 
that  tremendous  manuscript  of  heathen-night.  Then  he 
pointed  with  one  long,  tawny  finger  to  the  heavens.  For 
a  little  moment  that  dark,  thin  finger  wavered  with  in- 
decision, then  it  steadily  pointed  straight  toward  the 
far  north-west — and  lo!  I  saw  his  beloved  dead  (her 
who  had  died  thirty  years  before)  looking  out  of  the 
sparkling  constellation.  Yes,  two  bright  stars — her  eyes ! 
It  appeared  that  she  was  watching  over  the  little  group 
of  pale  stars  that  wistfully  stared  from  the  east  to  the 
north-west — they  were  the  spirits  of  O  Le  Langi's  four 
dead  children.  It  was  some  time  ere  he  lowered  his 
chin,  for  he  had  watched  long  and  strangely  those  stars 
that  he  claimed. 

As  the  shadows  deepened  and  wild  odours  of  citrons 
and  decaying  pineapples  drifted  on  the  cool  sea  wind,  I 
relit  my  pipe.  Once  more  the  old  poet  looked  at  me 
with  ambitious  pride  gleaming  from  his  eyes  over  my 
rapt  attention  and  praise.  Then  he  continued  in  sombre 
tones  that  which  was  apparently  of  magnificent  import 
to  him: 

One  night  I  stand  by  sea-coast,  dreaming 

Of  old  chief  who  had  longer  been  dead  in  forest  grave, 

I  felt  much  sad  as  shadows  of  night  falling 

Went  like  big  lava-lava  round  the  waist  of  Night 

As  her  big  black  feet  rest  on  side  of  ntoonrise! 

Long  before  stars  in  sky  go  indoors  of  morning, 


O  LE  LANGI  THE  PAGAN  POET      211 

As  god  open  door  and  let  sun  walker  out  'gain  into  sky. 
Then  I  looker  at  sea  and  saw  old  crab  out  walking: 
Creepy  up  shore  it  looker  me  sideway  artful. 
"I  know!    I  know!"  I  say  to  myself s,  "you  am  no  crab  that 

belonger  sea, 

You  am  ole  chief  from  Poluto,  disguised  in  crab-case. 
That's  whater  you  ares ! " 

"  What  did  the  old  crab,  the  chief,  I  mean,  say  then  ?  " 
said  I,  as  the  old  poet  leaned  his  chin  right  down  to  the 
hieroglyphic  tattoo  of  his  chest,  lapsing  into  deep  thought. 
In  respectful  attitude  I  awaited  his  next  inspiration, 
which  came  in  this  wise : 

He  wise  ole  crab-chief  and  know  much,  O  Pagalagi. 

So  he  look  up  at  me  and  say  in  voice  like  deep  music  of  waters: 

"  O  Le  Langi,  greatest  high  chief  of  these  parts, 

0  Chief  who  'ave  listen  to  the  Miserilinaries  l  and  hung  head, 
But  still  thoughter  mucher  of  great  gods  all  while, 

1  say:  the  gods  of  Poluto  and  the  great  Tangaloa 

Still  tramp,  tramp  across  the  great  sky-floors  of  shadowland. 

They  do  say  with  voice  of  thunders  in  mountains: 

'  That  great  O  Le  Langi  seems  most  faithful  to  us; 

Therefore,  though  all  the  forest  children  desert  us, 

We  still  put  forth  our  hands  and  scatter  stars — 

Stars  across  the  skies  of  shadowland. 

We  still  break  old  moons  across  our  mighty  knees 

To  brighten  the  Atua  halls  of  long  ago! 

We  still  catch  winds  that  creep  across  worlds  of  mortals 

And  take  from  their  shifting,  clutching  fingers 

The  thoughts  of  dead  mothers  for  children. 

We  still  gently  pull  out  the  thoughts  of  dead  maids  and  hopeful 

loves 

As  we  pull  up  the  old  sunsets  from  the  oceans. 
Our  vassal,  the  great  Matagi  wind,  it  still  catch  the  prayers  of 

our  faithful  children — 
And  yet  who  am  more  faithful  than  the  great  O  Le  Langi? f" 

"  O  Le  Langi,"  said  I,  "  I  feel  sure  that  the  gods  have 
no  more  faithful  servant" 

1  Missionaries. 


212  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

Lifting  his  hand  aloft  as  he  stared  seawards  to  hide 
the  embarrassment  he  felt  over  my  praise,  he  continued : 

'Tis  I,  O  Le  Langi,  who  maker  children  faithful: 

I  preach  on  sly  to  all  little  ones  and  old  chiefs  and  chief  esses. 

I  tell  them  wonders  of  shadowland  as  the  evening  falls. 

The  fantoes  creeper  from  huts  doors  and  kneel  at  my  feets  and 

listen  and  listen! 

Some  nights  I  go  down,  down  in  great  caves  of  Underworld! 
A  longer  way  I  go,  till  I  at  lasse  come  to  big  'nother  world. 
It  shine  'neath  'nother  big  sky  of  blue  and  red  stars. 
I  sit  on  small  star  and  great  god  Tangalora  sit  on  his  throne  by 

the  big  moon,  and  he  say: 

"Halloa!  great  O  Le  Langi,  what  you  wanter?" 
Then  I  says:  "  Show  me  ole  chiefs  who  die,  and  all  dead  peoples" 
Great  Tangalora  say:   "O  Le  Langi — look!" 
He  have  lift  big  veil  of  Night,  quick ! — I  stare  and  see 
Beautiful  country  of  mighty  trees  and  fruits, 
Big  moonlit  seas  dashing  by  shore  of  bright  Atua; 
I  see  my  dead  tribe  dancing,  waving  arms,  singing,  singing  to 

heathen  land  stars! 
Then  big  shadow  hand  of  god  Tangalora  move  and  drop  big 

veil  of  Night — 
And  I  no  longer  in  Underworld. 

"But  what  became  of  that  old  crab?"  said  I,  as  the 
old  chief  looked  about  him  and  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
the  commencement  of  his  story. 

Ah  me,  Papalagi,  the  old  crab  look  up  and  say: 
"Halloa!    O  Le  Langi,  you  been  in  Underworld?" 
And  then  I  say  "  Yes." 

And  then  crab  say:  "Did  you  'appen  to  see  beautiful 
Linger  Loa,  whom  I  once  love  mucker,  she  who  once  my  wife?" 
Then  I  look  at  crab  and  say: 

"Why,  yes!   I  did  see  Linger  Loa!  and  she  say  to  me: 
'Have  you  see  old  crab  on  shores  by  Savaii  Isle?' 
And  I  say:  'Yes!' 

And  then  she  say,  as  she  beat  bosom  liker  this  (here  the  chief 
punched   his    breast   vigorously), 


O  LE  LANGI  THE  PAGAN  POET      213 

'  O  great  O  Le  Langi,  when  you  nex  see  the  old  crab,  you  tell 

him  I  still  lover  him  much; 

And  tell  him  that,  when  ten  thousand  moons  have  passed  away, 
He  once  more  be  turn  to  chief  by  gods,  and  so 
Will  come  back  to  arms  of  poor  Linger  Loa  who  longer  see 


"And  what  did  the  old  crab  say  to  all  that,  O  Le 
Langi  ?  "  said  I. 

Ah  me!    The  great  chief  -crab  looker  up  at  me  with  sad  eyes. 
Then  he  sigh  and  walk  sideways  down  to  sea, 
And,  shedding  tears,  plunged  into  the  deep  water. 


CHAPTER  XI.     R.  L.  S.  IN  SAMOA 

O  Le  Langi's  Influence — Heathen  Magic — Poetic  Aspira- 
tions— Ramao  and  Essimao-Samoan  Types — Robert  Louis 
Stevenson  and  the  "Beautiful  White  Woman"— O  Le 
Langi  becomes  a  Part  of  the  Forest — "  Here  Lies  O  Le 
Langi " — A  Great  Truth. 

Here,  by  a  tiny  pagan  hut, 

A  kid,  star-eyed  and  brown, 

Chews  off  the  milky  coco-nut 

That  grew  just  up  the  town ! 

As  I,  my  back  turned  t'wards  the  sun, 

Stare  out  across  the  seas 

Wherefrom   strange   melodies   come   in   and   run 

Across  the  Island's  trees. 

AH,  sublime  poet  O  Le  Langi !  It  was  your  elemental 
poetic  genius,  more  than  the  inspirations  of  the  poets 
of  my  own  land,  that  first  turned  my  thoughts  to  the 
magic  of  the  seas,  skies,  travelling  stars,  and  the  strange 
look  in  men's  eyes.  'Twas  you  who  made  me  hear  the 
ineffable  sounds  of  music,  the  visionary  sights  and  the 
wonders  of  night  and  moonlight  in  the  forest.  Yours 
was  the  mercy  that  lent  me  the  ear  to  hear  the  plead- 
ing voice  of  the  unfledged  song  in  the  red-splashed  bird's 
egg,  till  I  carefully  climbed  back  and  laid  it  once  more 
in  the  mossy  nest  high  in  the  banyans.  It  was  you  who 
inspired  me  to  stand  on  the  palm-clad  slopes,  by  the 
sapphire-hued  Pacific  waters,  and  see  the  glorious  mist 
of  God's  breath  pervade  the  circumambient  life  of  this 
mirror  of  a  universe  that  shadows  forth  His  infinite 
dreams.  'Twas  you  who  led  me  into  the  magic  parlour 
of  infinite  splendour  where  birds,  goddesses,  and  gods 

214 


R.  L.  S.  IN  SAMOA  215 

sang  and  lifted  their  goblets  of  nectar,  toasting  in  song 
their  joy  and  thanksgiving  to  the  laughing,  flying  hours — 
hours  that  peeped  through  the  magic  door  of  the  sunrise. 
I  too  stood  by  that  wondrous  shanty  door,  where  the 
palms  sang,  and  stretched  my  shadow-arm  to  the  sky- 
line, while  with  goblet  in  hand  I  dipped  and  filled  it 
to  the  brim  with  the  sparkling  foam  from  the  golden 
sunsets  of  the  wine-dark  seas !  Yes,  Langi,  I  also  drank 
the  intoxicating  ecstasy  of  those  foaming  hours  of  crim- 
son and  golden  light.  Yet,  Langi,  I,  sceptic  that  I  was, 
once  doubted  you  when  you  stood  by  the  moonlit  water- 
falls of  the  forest  and  swore  that  you  saw  the  silvery 
flowing  beards  and  big  jagged  knees  of  the  gods.  In 
the  blindness  of  my  worldly  vision  I  swore  that  it  was 
nothing  more  than  the  foaming  moonlit  waters  falling 
down  the  fern-clad  crags  of  the  mountain's  side:  no 
knees,  no  gigantic  rugged  faces  of  gods  at  all!  I  even 
doubted  that  the  dark,  Old-Man-Frog's  hind-legs,  as  he 
swam  deep  in  the  still  depths  of  the  star-mirroring  water 
of  the  lagoon,  touched  with  his  webbed  feet  and  scat- 
tered the  constellation  of  stars  that  were  the  proud  eyes 
of  your  mighty  ancestors  who  ever  watched  over  you 
from  the  skies  out  to  the  north-west.  Ah,  how  blind 
I  was!  But  I  became  a  true  pagan  after  that.  It  was 
I  who  taught  you  to  sing  the  songs  of  Cathay  and  the 
melodies  of  mediaeval  romance  of  Long  Ago.  Who  will 
believe  that  we  heard  the  winds  tolling  the  bells  of  Time, 
faintly,  far  away  in  some  infinite  belfry  of  the  stars, 
as  the  violin  wailed  and  your  aged,  cracked  voice  chanted  ? 
Yes,  long  ago,  when  strange,  blue-eyed  Danes  and 
Homeric  sailormen  from  the  semi-fabled  seas  threw  silver 
coins  into  our  old  collecting-calabash!  I  thank  you  and 
Heaven,  O  Le  Langi,  that  once  I  was  rich  beyond  the 
dreams  of  avarice.  Notwithstanding  the  beauty  and 
truth  of  the  Christian  apostles,  it  was  you,  old  heathen, 


216  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

who  invested  me  with  a  glamour,  threw  over  the  shoulders 
of  this  dilapidated  catastrophe  Me,  a  magical  cloak,  the 
texture  whereof  I  am  unable  to  explain.  That  old  cloak 
of  many  colours  and  glorious  illusions  has  long  since 
been  torn  to  a  thousand  shreds.  But  out  of  each  old 
heap,  the  debris  of  shattered  illusions,  have  blossomed, 
from  the  seeds  of  old  enchantments,  other  flowers. 
Beautiful  too  are  the  flowers  of  disenchantment!  But 
away  with  such  rhapsodizing,  for  I  must  return  as  grace- 
fully as  possible  to  my  immediate  memoirs. 

About  this  time  I  had  a  recurrence  of  yellow  jaundice. 
My  liver  was  a  healthy  one;  but  on  my  first  visit  to 
Samoa,  a  year  before,  I  had  foolishly  eaten  of  some  red- 
berry  fruit  that  turned  out  to  be  most  poisonous.  I 
had,  in  consequence,  suffered  a  serious  illness.  Indeed, 
I  had  turned  a  yellowish-green,  and  finally  had  taken 
a  voyage  to  Honolulu  to  seek  special  medical  advice. 
Whilst  in  Honolulu  my  visage  became  so  distressingly 
yellow  and  my  aspect  so  melancholy  that  the  chief  under- 
taker, Kami  Sarhab,  gave  me  fifteen  dollars  a  week  to 
act  as  chief  mute  and  mourner  at  the  royal  burial 
ceremonies.  But  even  in  this  capacity  my  services  failed 
lugubriously;  for  I  felt  such  pain  in  the  abdomen,  was 
so  intensely  sad,  that  the  envy  expressed  in  my  eyes  and 
on  my  bilious-green  physiognomy  for  the  deep,  painless 
slumber  of  the  defunct  was  conspicuous  to  all  eyes,  as  I 
walked  ahead  of  the  hearse,  endeavouring  my  best  to 
mourn  over  the  dreamless  sleep  of  the  departed.  Thank 
Heaven,  my  second  attack  of  jaundice  left  me  in  a  few 
days.  A  local  native  physician,  Rimoloo,  recommended 
me  to  drink  deeply  of  the  water  from  boiled  yams  and 
breadfruits  flavoured  with  Holland  gin;  and  my  delight 
on  changing  colour  at  the  fourth  gallon  can  be  better 
imagined  than  described  to  those  who  have  drunk  of  the 
aforesaid  mixture. 


R.  L.  S.  IN  SAMOA  217 

While  enjoying  the  congenial  companionship  of  O  Le 
Langi  I  deserted  my  study  of  instrumental  music  and 
harmony  and  turned  my  thoughts  to  poetry.  A  trader 
at  Matautu,  Savaii  Isle,  had  presented  me  with  a  volume 
of  A.  L.  Gordon's  poems  and  Whitman's  Leaves  of  Grass. 
The  perusal  of  these  volumes  amidst  romantic  surround- 
ings intensified  the  ardent  love  I  have  ever  felt  for  Nature 
in  all  her  wildest  moods.  Indeed,  I  have  often  stood 
before  an  aged,  dying  forest-tree  and  felt  some  affec- 
tionate kinship  with  its  sensate  sorrow  over  its  approach- 
ing dissolution.  Strange  as  it  may  seem  to  some,  I  must 
confess  that  old  wooden  ships,  deserted  huts,  stuffed 
birds,  and  the  like  have  appealed  to  me  far  more  than 
the  tender  melodies  of  beautiful  songs  and  the  thrills 
of  romantic  books.  Even  the  thick  mahogany  wood 
of  my  arm-chair  calls  up  vistas  of  some  mammoth  tree 
of  the  southern  forest.  What  song-birds  settled  on  its 
boughs  to  stay  and  sing  awhile  on  their  flight!  And 
what  wild  men,  women,  and  weary  children  on  the 
strange,  long  tribal  march  camped  beneath  their  shelter 
— the  shelter  of  boughs  that  now  encircle  my  recumbent, 
dreaming  form  in  this  inn's  carven  arm-chair ! 

I  remember  that,  after  reading  Whitman's  poems,  I 
began  to  write  words  to  the  many  melodies  that  I  was 
continually  composing.  I  was  surprised  at  the  ease 
with  which  poetical  ideas  seemed  to  come  to  me.  My 
brain  teemed  with  suitable  poetic  similes.  But  my  work- 
manship was  execrable.  Many  of  my  lyrics  were  inspired 
by  home-sickness.  I  recall  that  I  wrote  about  thirty 
songs.  Probably  three  of  them  were  good.  I  know  that 
I  set  a  high  value  on  those  sentimental  lyrics  and  that 
I  placed  them  in  my  tin  box  with  my  prized  volume  of 
E.  Prout's  Harmony  and  Counterpoint,  so  that  they 
might  be  safe  until  that  day  when  I  could  submit  them 
to  a  publisher.  But  no  publisher's  musical  editor  ever 


218  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

had  them  inflicted  upon  him.  My  ship,  a  year  later,  was 
wrecked  off  the  Solomon  Isles;  and  I  stood  under  the 
shore  palms,  with  all  my  beloved  inspirations  at  the 
bottom  of  the  ocean,  and  passed  in  review,  so  I  grimly 
imagined,  by  the  tuneful  mermaids  of  the  coral  seas. 
Many  of  the  stranded  sailors'  effects  were  washed  ashore 
the  next  day,  but  were  immediately  snatched  up  by  the 
thieving  natives,  who  bolted  off  with  them  into  the  moun- 
tain villages.  Perhaps  those  wild  tattooed  men  got  hold 
of  my  sacred  tin  box.  And  if  any  talented  cannibal  sings 
my  old  songs,  and  is  well  up  in  the  mysteries  of  harmony 
and  counterpoint,  he  has  undoubtedly  made  greater  head- 
way in  that  difficult  art  than  I  had  in  those  days.  But 
still,  it  is  something  that  I  should  be  able  to  claim  to 
be  the  first  who  introduced  E.  Prout's  volume  of  Har- 
mony and  Counterpoint  into  the  cannibal  Solomon  Isles. 
I  remember  that  O  Le  Langi  asked  me  to  translate  the 
words  of  many  of  his  legendary  poems  into  my  own 
language.  My  heathen  poet's  face  lit  up  with  pride  when 
I  sang  some  of  his  songs  in  my  own  tongue,  and  with 
equal  pride  made  a  forcible  accent  on  the  rhymes  so 
that  he  could  hear  how  the  lines  went.  O  Le  Langi 
at  once  enticed  me  to  go  with  him  round  the  coast 
to  Mootua,  so  that  I  might  let  his  rival  scribes  hear 
how  nice  his  poems  sounded  when  translated  into  the 
great  Papalagi's  language.  He  was  so  delighted  with 
the  obvious  jealousy  that  was  expressed  on  the  wrinkled 
faces  of  his  rivals  that  he  struck  his  chest  thrice  and 
flung  one  hand  behind  his  back.  I  discovered  that  this 
act  of  Langi's  was  a  direct  challenge  to  them  to  compose 
the  words  of  a  song  as  well  as  he.  One  of  the  older 
scribes,  at  once  accepting  the  challenge,  stepped  forward 
and,  swelling  the  magnificent  hieroglyphic  tattoo  of  his 
chest,  chanted  an  impromptu  legend.  Though  I  could 
not  understand  all  the  words  of  this  legendary  improvi- 


R.  L.  S.  IN  SAMOA  219 

zation,  I  remember  that  the  melody  was  so  effective  that 
I  extemporized  with  ease  an  accompaniment  on  my 
violin.  This  brought  forth  a  volley  of  applause  from 
the  whole  tribe,  who  had  rushed  from  their  huts  to  listen 
to  the  wonderful  magic  wood-scraping  of  the  white 
Tusitala  (maker  of  songs).  For  a  while  I  quite  expected 
there  would  be  a  fight  between  the  rivals.  But  things 
smoothed  down.  I  was  finally  awarded  a  calabash  of 
kava,  which  I  courteously  placed  to  my  lips,  and  then, 
whilst  the  chiefs  were  talking,  poured  the  contents  into 
the  fern  grass  at  my  feet  At  this  moment  the  high 
chief's  daughter,  a  sea-blue-eyed  maid  with  a  veritable 
forest  of  bronze-hued  hair,  fell  on  one  knee  before  me 
and  started  to  sing  a  weird  melody.  For  a  moment  I 
was  considerably  embarrassed.  I  soon,  however,  recov- 
ered my  wits,  and  then  I  took  her  hand  and  bade  her 
rise.  My  imagination  clothed  me  with  a  majesty  which 
I  had  gathered  from  my  old  novels.  And  I  distinctly 
recall  the  admiration  in  the  eyes  of  the  onlookers  as  I 
slightly  lifted  my  helmet  hat  and  then  bowed  as  though 
I  were  some  mighty  king  paying  court  to  a  princess  of 
a  neighbouring  dynasty.  She  handed  me  a  beautifully 
carved  tortoise-shell  comb  from  her  hair,  and  the  glance 
that  accompanied  the  gift  cannot  be  divulged  in  mere 
words.  I  responded  by  diving  my  hand  into  my  breast 
pocket,  and  then  handed  her  a  really  valuable  silver 
match-box.  She  blushed  deeply,  for  the  munificence  of 
my  return  gift  was  obvious.  That  same  night  O  Le 
Langi  and  myself  were  the  chief  guests  at  the  festival 
board  of  the  fale  fapule  (chief  house).  And  as  I  sat  at 
the  head  of  the  long  low  table  and  the  steam  rose  from 
the  mighty  dishes  of  roast  pig  and  many  indigenous 
fruit  dishes,  Essao's  eyes,  for  that  was  her  name,  gave 
me  swift,  bright  glances  that  told  all  that  a  romantic 
Samoan  maid's  eyes  can  tell  when  her  heart  warms  to 


220  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

a  stranger.  But,  notwithstanding  my  ardent  nature  and 
the  lure  of  her  bright  eyes,  I  was  saved  from  early  matri- 
mony, for  when  the  head  chief  caught  me  bowing 
gallant  acknowledgments  to  his  daughter's  eyes,  his 
brow  wrinkled  up  into  a  tortuous  map  of  disapproval. 

Nevertheless,  when  O  Le  Langi  and  I  left  the  village 
that  night,  Essao  gave  me  her  tenderest  secret  glance 
and  managed  to  present  me  with  a  flower  from  her  hair. 
Though  I  did  not  see  her  again,  I  wrote  many  verses 
about  her  beauty. 

I  think  that  it  was  about  this  period  that  I  wrote 
several  of  the  poems  that  were  later  on  published  in  my 
little  booklet  of  Australian  and  South  Sea  Lyrics.  This 
little  booklet  of  verse,  to  my  surprise  and  pleasure,  was 
highly  praised  in  the  literary  journals  in  England,  and 
also  brought  me  letters  of  encouragement  from  such  men 
as  Henry  Newbolt,  William  Michael  Rossetti,  and  Robert 
Bridges. 

But  to  proceed  with  those  adventurous  happy  days 
when  the  light  of  the  great  poet  O  Le  Langi's  eyes  shone 
upon  me.  Whilst  stopping  with  Langi  I  was  down  with 
severe  fever.  I  was  staying  at  the  time  in  a  native 
homestead  quite  near  to  the  aged  scribe's  residence. 
Langi  was  very  kind  to  me,  and  secured  the  services  of  a 
native  woman  to  attend  to  my  wants.  This  Samoan  lady 
had  a  child  who  was  about  four  years  old.  He  was  an 
intelligent  little  fellow  and  had  ocean-blue  eyes  and  curly 
hair.  When  I  sat  up  on  my  bed-mat,  tinkling  melodies 
on  my  violin,  Ramao,  for  that  was  his  name,  would 
somersault  with  delight;  then  once  again  peep  inside 
the  F  holes  of  my  instrument  to  see  where  the  music 
came  from.  Every  day  he  would  run  off  into  the  forest 
to  pluck  flowers  for  me,  and  would  make  my  bed  with 
soft  moss,  attending  to  my  wants  with  the  unremitting 
solicitude  of  a  lovable,  innocent  child.  Heaven  knows 


R.  L.  S.  IN  SAMOA  221 

where  he  learnt  the  weird  songs  that  he  sang  to  me  as 
he  sat  by  my  bedside,  swaying  to  and  fro  like  some  elfin- 
child.  Lying  there  stricken  with  fever,  I  would  stare 
into  his  beautiful,  original  eyes  till  the  whole  world 
seemed  to  be  singing  in  its  happy  childhood.  I  realized 
that  the  age  of  four  was  the  golden  age  of  mortal  exist- 
ence, the  age  that  understands  the  grandest  philosophy 
of  life,  the  age  when  all  the  infinite  possibilities  are  as 
near  consummation  as  they  can  well  be  in  this  world. 
Much  that  had  puzzled  my  wretched  civilized  brain  as 
I  listened  to  O  Le  Langi's  long  discourses  became  clear 
to  me.  Langi  was  not  such  a  fool  after  all;  it  was  I  who 
was  the  heathen !  The  iron  laws  of  my  country  had  sent 
me  to  school  so  that  my  God-given  wisdom  should  be 
strangled  by  dogmatic  heathenish  teachers.  I  recalled 
how  the  great  and  splendidly  religious  Langi  had 
crashed  his  club  down  on  his  threshhold,  and  in  magnifi- 
cent declamatory  style  had  said : 

"  Pah !  Foolish  white-skinned  man,  he  come  here 
with  his  mouldy  skull  full  of  worms  so  that  he  may 
teach  us  also  to  grow  old,  scraggy,  and  full  of  wretched 
wisdom.  He  hears  not  the  voices  of  the  gods  murmur- 
ing in  the  children's  babblings."  Then  that  aged  scribe 
had  laid  his  wrinkled  hand  on  my  head,  and  in  sonorous, 
melancholy  tones  had  said :  "  O  Papalagi,  I  say,  your 
people  looker  beyond  the  mountains  at  the  stars  for  the 
wisdom  of  the  great  waters  when  'tis  only  to  be  heard 
in  the  sweet-toned  shells  that  are  scattered  on  the  sunny 
shores  of  childhood." 

So  spake  Langi.  And  I,  who  knew  that  we  are  born 
in  fullest  possession  of  the  divine  faculties  only  that  we 
may  grow  old  and  sad,  had  at  once  become  a  true  disciple 
of  that  glorious  old  heathen.  Indeed,  I  almost  succeeded 
in  realizing  that  the  peoples  of  the  civilized  world  were 
my  humble  attendants,  and  that  O  Le  Langi,  crammed 


222  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

with  mythology  and  strange  tales  about  sad  old  crabs, 
was  a  heathen  Solomon  arrayed  in  the  splendour  of  the 
stars.  Langi  could  stand  on  the  mountain  peaks  of 
supreme  "  ignorance,"  whisper  into  the  ear  of  the  uni- 
verse, and,  listening,  hear  those  Truths  that  only  murmur 
in  some  great  speech  of  silence  to  the  soul. 

I  know  that  the  light  of  little  Ramao's  eyes  also  filled 
my  soul  with  some  strange,  intuitive  wisdom.  When  the 
little  fellow  opened  his  eyes  wide  and  said : 

"  Oh,  listen,  Papalagi,  to  the  0  le  mao  bird  as  it  sings 
to  the  light  of  the  mountain  stars,"  I  did  not  hear  a 
night-bird  singing  to  its  mate  in  the  banyan  trees,  but 
I  heard  a  soft-feathered  transmutation  of  a  blue  day  of 
ages  ago  singing  tenderly,  sadly,  to  some  memory  of  its 
birth  in  the  rosy  eternity  of  the  east.  Ramao's  presence 
in  that  hut,  where  I  lay  sick  with  fever,  cast  a  poetic 
glamour  over  my  existence.  One  evening  he  rushed 
into  the  hut,  and,  stooping  down  by  my  bed-mat,  swiftly 
covered  my  shoulders  with  the  tappa-rug.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  doorway  and  gave  a  whistle,  and  softly 
called  out: 

"  Essimao,  come  in  and  see  wonderful  white  boy  who 
play  on  magic  wood." 

He  had  brought  his  sister  to  see  me.  There  she  stood, 
a,  charming  little  maid  of  about  seven  years,  peeping 
curiously  at  me  through  the  half -open  doorway.  I 
called  her;  and,  as  though  she  had  been  born  for  the 
purpose  of  waiting  on  men  in  sickness,  she  straightway 
squatted  by  me  and  commenced  to  sing.  Her  voice 
rippled  from  her  lips  like  the  deep-stealing  music  of  a 
forest  stream.  Rising  to  her  feet  she  swayed  softly, 
and  it  seemed  that  the  rhythm  of  music  rose  and  fell  in 
tiny  billows  along  the  graceful  movements  of  her  limbs. 
Her  laughter  was  sweetest  balm  to  my  fevered  soul. 
She  was  a  perfect  little  gipsy  of  the  sea-nursed  south. 


R.  L.  S.  IN  SAMOA  223 

I  know  that  if  the  delightful  George  Borrow,  that  true 
lover  of  the  Romany  Chile,  had  reached  the  South  Seas 
and  had  seen  Essimao  place  a  sea-shell  to  her  ear  and 
swear  that  she  could  hear  the  big  moani  all  (ocean) 
beating  on  the  shores  of  God's  mountain  footstools, 
he  would,  I  am  sure,  have  devoted  pages  to  the  beauty 
of  Essimao  and  the  religious  influence  her  presence 
inspired.  I  know  that  she  impressed  me  more  than  all 
the  Psalms  could  do.  The  sayings  of  the  Apostles  and 
the  teachings  of  Confucius,  down  to  those  of  Kant  and 
Strindberg,  etc.,  are  as  nothing  to  me  when  compared 
with  the  wisdom  and  charm  of  little  Essimao  and 
Ramao's  four  infinite  years.  Those  little  philosophers 
made  me  realize,  long  ago,  the  cursed  irony  of  the  fates 
in  decreeing  that  man  should  be  born  the  wrong  way 
up,  so  that  we  grow  old  instead  of  young.  But  my 
memory  does  not  betray  me  when  I  assert  here  that  O 
Le  Langi  was  an  exception,  a  phenomenon  who  had  out- 
witted the  fates,  had  never  grown  out  of  his  wise, 
resplendent  infancy.  Like  the  child  of  four  years,  he 
was  still  a  mighty  philosopher,  a  true  socialist,  roman- 
ticist, individualist,  poet,  humorist,  spritualist,  realist, 
optimist,  pessimist,  mystic,  maniac,  prophet,  and  one 
who  had  the  transcendentalist's  belief  in  a  Supreme 
Being;  and  lo,  all  this  encased  in  one  skull  crammed 
with  the  divine  light  that  we  are  all  gifted  with  when 
we  are  four  years  old.  Ah,  the  wondrous  book  that  an 
imaginative  child  of  four  years  could  give  us  could  it 
write  down  its  impressions,  its  own  outlook  on  life  and 
all  that  it  imagines  about  this  world!  What  marvellous 
truths  would  its  great  unworldliness  spring  upon  us! 
Once,  when  I  lay  near  to  death,  Ramao  lay  on  one  side 
of  me  and  Essimao  on  the  other,  placing  their  fingers 
in  sympathy  through  my  hair.  I  felt  that  I  had  travelled 
so  far  that  I  had  stumbled  on  the  edge  of  the  earth  that 


224  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

is  nearest  the  heavens.  Perhaps  I  digress  unduly  in  my 
reflections  over  Ramao  and  Essimao,  when  it  is  only 
children  in  the  hey-day  of  life's  philosophical  prime  who 
can  understand  the  truth  of  that  which  I  say.  Few  may 
believe  the  virtues  that  I  claim  for  my  old  friend  Langi 
and  these  children.  Langi,  who  had  read  many  of  the 
abridged  editions  of  the  standard  works,  cursed  the 
outrageous  vanity  of  white  men.  His  nervous,  sensitive 
nostrils  would  dilate,  his  sonorous,  eloquently  violent 
voice  ringing  out  like  the  mellow  poetry  of  old  bells  as 
he  declaimed: 

"  Pah !  What  am  this  white  Papalagi  more  than  a 
pale-skinned  thief  of  the  night?  Am  he  not  the  dark 
misbeliever  who  slay  our  mighty  gods  and  doubt  their 
virtues — and  us?" 

"True!  true!  O  mighty  O  Le  Langi! "  I'd  say,  as  I 
listened  in  incorrigible  delight,  while  with  chin  and  hand 
raised  to  the  sky  he  spoke  on : 

"  The  white  Papalagi  am  one  great  hypocrite,  who 
loveth  the  earth,  money,  and  old  clothes — neither  doth 
he  smell  over-sweet!  Where?  Where  is  this  God  who 
had  power  to  fashion  this  white  man,  yet,  lo,  made  some 
First  Great  Mistake — since  I  am  brown?"  And  say- 
ing this,  O  Le  Langi  dashed  his  coco-nut-shell  goblet 
to  the  ground,  and  exclaimed :  "  Think  you  'tis  wise 
His  faults  to  change?"  And  still  he  would  rave  on 
in  this  wise :  "  I  say,  O  Papalagi,  had  the  first  white 
man  discovered  my  people  living  in  one  great  town 
that  had  a  leaning  tower,  and  one  rotunda  and  nicer 
cathedrals  with  great  stained-glass  windows,  they  would 
have  said :  '  O  great  Samoan  Peoples !  God's  eyelight 
doth  shine  in  thy  sight;  your  women,  too,  are  beautiful 
as  the  stars  and  flowers.  O  wondrous  brown  men,  I 
greet  you,  Allelujah ! '  Then,  wiping  the  tears  of 
tense  emotion  from  his  eyes,  he  wailed  forth :  "  Alas, 


R.  L.  S.  IN  SAMOA  225 

my  people  lived  in  huts,  therefore  were  severely  be- 
laboured with  rods  and  their  daughters  sold  into  slavery 
and  worshipped  only  for  their  bodies'  beauty." 

Even  as  I  write  I  can  hear  O  Le  Langi  sigh :  "  Alas ! 
Alas!  Papalagi  the  faithful,"  as  his  ghost  peers  over 
my  shoulder  tonight  as  I  pen  these  memoirs.  Yes,  O  Le 
Langi  could  see  "  Heaven  in  a  wild  flower  and  Eternity 
in  a  grain  of  sand."  Little  Ramao,  too,  felt  quite  equal 
to  the  white  men,  and  honestly  claimed  everything  from 
the  stars  down  to  my  boots  and  my  violin.  He  even 
claimed  my  parents'  photographs  which  I  kept  in  my 
tin  box,  for  he  placed  them  carefully  in  the  folds  of  his 
lava-lava  when  I  was  not  looking — true  little  socialist 
that  he  was.  And,  when  he  fell  from  the  palm  tree, 
whilst  seeking  coco-nuts,  and  broke  his  back,  he  died 
with  a  smile  on  his  lips  that  had  God's  philosophy  in  it. 

The  tears  fell  fast  from  O  Le  Langi's  eyes  when  he 
said: 

"  O  Papalagi,  the  seas  do  roll  on  for  ever,  but  man 
go  back  to  his  fathers." 

Then  the  winds  sighed  mournfully  in  the  coco-palms, 
and  O  Le  Langi  softly  dug  his  fingers  into  the  heap  of 
soft-scented  mould,  and  dropped  the  first  lump  of  earth 
down  on  to  Ramao's  dead,  smiling  face. 

"  Aue !  Aue !  "  wailed  the  stricken  mother,  as  we  turned 
away  from  the  graveside.  And  three  or  four  little 
children  who  had  stood  watching  the  burial  procession 
from  the  shades  of  the  flamboyant  trees,  cried :  "  Wa 
noo !  Wa  noo !  "  and  then  disappeared  in  some  fright 
down  the  forest  tracks.  Such  was  the  end  of  Ramao 
as  the  sunset  fired  the  far-off  sea  horizon.  The  cicalas 
were  chrruping  in  the  belts  of  mangroves  as  we  arrived 
once  more  at  Langi's  homestead. 

For  a  long  time  after  that  sad  incident  I  fancied  I 
could  hear  some  wail  of  sorrow  in  the  mournful  mono- 


226  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

tones  of  the  waves  that  incessantly  beat  against  the 
barrier  reefs.  But  the  splendid  reality  of  the  hot  sun- 
light again  came  over  the  world.  Again  Time  turned 
the  withered  pages  of  each  blue  tropic  day,  pages  that 
faded  into  the  yellowing  of  each  sunset.  Flowers  on 
the  slopes  grew  musical  with  bees.  Fierce  happiness 
reigned  in  the  tribal  villages  along  the  coast  as  the  old 
chiefs  chanted  their  savage  memories  of  olden  time  and 
the  children  thumped  toy  drums.  Bright-eyed  maidens 
and  amorous  youths  laughed  and  sang.  Then  O  Le 
Langi  enticed  me  to  go  off  troubadouring  with  him. 

"  We  maker  lot  moneys,  O  Tusitala !  "  said  he. 

And  so  I  went,  and  O  Le  Langi  carried  my  violin 
as  we  tramped  miles  and  miles  visiting  the  coast  villages. 
Sometimes  we  hired  a  canoe  and  paddled  to  the  many 
islets  of  the  Samoan  group.  With  his  tappa-robe 
wrapped  about  him,  the  tasselled  end  flung  cavalier-wise 
over  one  shoulder,  O  Le  Langi  would  stand  with  chin 
raised  as  he  stood  in  the  old  tribal  forums  of  many  a 
lonely  native  village,  chanting  melodiously  as  I  played 
on  my  violin.  Even  the  white  men,  traders  and  sailors 
in  the  grog-bars  near  Matautu,  down  by  the  beach  on 
Savaii  Isle,  left  their  rum  mugs,  strode  to  the  bar  door- 
way, listened  and  stared,  as  Langi  told  wonderful  things 
about  his  old  gods,  pointing  magnificently  to  the  trees, 
the  distant  mountains  and  seas,  calling  them  mighty  wit- 
nesses of  all  which  he  would  claim  for  the  beauty  of  his 
legendary  world.  The  old  shellbacks  opened  their  eyes 
in  astonishment,  tugged  their  beards,  spat  seaward,  and 
stared  again,  as  the  earnest  note  in  his  voice  gained  even 
their  ragged  respect.  It  must  have  been  a  strange  sight 
as  my  pagan  brother-artist  stood  before  them,  clothed 
in  the  majesty  of  a  past  tribal  chiefdom  and  the  glory 
of  a  proud  imagination  that  they  could  not  understand. 
But  what  cared  I,  as  with  fiddle  to  my  chin  I  played  on, 


R.  L.  S.  IN  SAMOA  227 

my  helmet  hat  tilted  back  on  my  head,  till  O  Le  Langi's 
wheezy  voice  gave  the  final  chant  ere  he  snatched  that 
dilapidated  shelter  from  the  tropic  sun  off  my  head, 
and  held  it  under  the  eyes  of  those  sunburnt  men  from 
the  seas! 

Ah,  memory  of  Langi  and  true  romance!  Great, 
unlaurelled  poet  of  the  South  Seas,  how  satisfied  you 
were  with  your  earthly  existence!  How  satisfied  with 
the  poetic  fame  you  achieved  as  your  kind  critics  cast 
coins  of  approval  into  my  shabby  helmet  hat — that  old 
hat  that  held  the  joy  and  romance  of  my  youth  and  all 
that  was  wealth  inexhaustible  to  you — and  me!  Often 
in  my  deeper  dreams  I  see  you  standing  beneath  your 
beloved  palms  near  Apia  as  you  watch  the  gold  of  the 
setting  sun  sinking  into  the  western  seas.  Ah,  kind  old 
heathen,  again  I  see  your  grim  glance  when  you  look 
at  the  woebegone  faces  of  the  missionaries  as  they  pass 
you  by;  and,  as  you  watch  them,  I  see  your  aged  lips 
smile  and  quiver  into  that  poetic  grin  that  seems  to  say : 

"  There,  but  for  God's  mercy,  goes  O  Le  Langi !  " 

As  some  may  think  I  have  overestimated  the  comeli- 
ness and  mentality  of  the  majority  of  the  old-time 
Samoans,  I  would  like  to  give  other  opinions  than  my 
own  on  the  subject  before  finishing  this  chapter.  First 
of  all,  I  would  mention  that  all  observant,  able  authori- 
ties who  have  travelled,  and  written  about  the  South 
Seas,  have  remarked  upon  the  fine  physique  and  general 
attractiveness  of  the  Polynesian  races.  In  my  profes- 
sion, and  I  was  bandmaster  of  the  king's  bodyguard 
band  in  Hawaii,  in  Tahiti,  and  again  in  Mexico,  etc.,  I 
had  many  opportunities  of  hearing  the  opinions  of  the 
various  representatives  of  the  Missionary  Societies,  and 
they  were  very  often  men  of  refined  tastes,  and  so  com- 
petent to  judge.  These  men  all  seemed  to  share  my 


228  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

opinion  with  respect  to  the  manliness  and  refinement 
of  the  Samoans.  Of  course,  a  difference  of  opinion 
is  bound  to  exist,  for,  to  be  sure,  there  is  a  class  of  men 
who,  by  an  inherent  obliquity  of  mental  vision,  see  all  the 
coloured  races  as  something  semi-bestial  and  unworthy 
of  a  white  man's  interest  and  sympathy. 

I  once  had  the  pleasure  of  arriving  in  Apia  with 
Monsieur  Bassaire,  a  well-known  French  artist.  I  viv- 
idly recall  his  astonishment  and  admiration  when  he 
first  saw  the  Samoans  who  came  on  deck  to  welcome 
us  when  we  arrived  off  Mulinuu.  Nor  was  Bassaire's 
surprise  to  be  wondered  at,  for  the  handsome,  sun- 
bronzed,  herculean  figures  of  the  Samoan  men  were 
shown  off  to  tremendous  advantage  as  they  stood  on 
deck  amongst  the  slop-shouldered,  thick-necked  German 
crew.  Bassaire,  who  had  travelled  in  New  Guinea  in 
1879  with  James  Chalmers,  the  God-fearing,  adventurous 
missionary,1  was  touring  the  world,  and  was  taking 
sketches  of  the  various  races  of  mankind.  I  know  that 
he  was  pleased  with  his  artistic  work  in  Samoa.  Bassaire 
was  introduced  to  Robert  Louis  Stevenson,  and  it  was 
whilst  they  were  in  each  other's  company  that  I  heard 
R.L.S.  comment  on  the  clear  complexions  of  the  Samoans. 
We  were  in  the  photographer's  studio  in  Apia,  and 
Stevenson  was  examining  some  of  the  photographs. 
The  photographer  told  us  that,  though  hundreds  of 
native  girls  and  youths  presented  themselves  at  his 
studio  in  hopes  that  they  would  make  photographs  of 
commercial  value  for  book  illustrations  and  for  selling 
to  tourists,  he  was  invariably  able  to  choose  only  two, 
or  three  at  most,  who  possessed  the  thick  lips  and  sensual 
features  that  coincided  with  the  stock  European  idea  of 

1  The  author  met  James  Chalmers  in  Apia  and  again  at  Port 
Moresby,  New  Guinea.  Chalmers  was  a  splendid  type  of  the  earnest 
missionary — manly,  sincere,  and  brave,  and  a  true  Bohemian.  He 
was  murdered  by  New  Guinea  cannibals  a  few  years  ago. 


R.  L.  S.  IN  SAMOA  229 

the  South  Sea  type.  Indeed,  when  Stevenson  glanced 
through  the  albums,  he  actually  mistook  some  of  the 
photographs  of  the  Samoans,  which  were  toned  in  a 
light  shade,  for  Europeans.  R.L.S.  remarked  that  he 
considered  that  in  some  ways  the  Samoans  were  amongst 
the  handsomest  races  to  be  found  in  the  world.  How- 
ever, they  become  slightly  broad  in  the  nose  as  they 
get  older  and  the  lips  become  sensual-looking;  the  skin, 
which  in  youth  is  of  a  golden  hue,  deepens  to  a  tawny 
hue  with  age,  the  complexion  becoming  swarthy,  some- 
thing akin  to  that  of  the  Spanish,  Italian,  Southern 
French,  and  the  darker  types  of  British.  Of  course, 
these  remarks  refer  to  the  true-blooded  types  of  over 
twenty  years  ago.  Through  intermarriage  with  Mongo- 
lians, Negroes,  Malays,  Papuans,  and  low-caste  British, 
the  herculean  Samoan  is  becoming  a  very  rare  individual 
indeed.  The  statue-like  figure  is  becoming  bent  and 
dwarfed,  the  full,  clear  eyes  crafty-looking.  I  know 
that  the  surviving  children  of  the  old  race,  who  now 
roam  those  palm-clad  slopes,  struck  me,  on  a  later  day, 
as  a  kind  of  human  rainbow,  some  aftermath  that  sadly 
reflected  the  tropic  suns,  the  light  and  laughter  of  other 
brighter  days.  For  now  one  meets  all  kinds  of  com- 
plexion— yellowish,  brownish,  white-blotched,  mauve, 
greenish,  tawny,  and  black,  and  eyes  as  multitudinous  in 
colour  as  their  own  tropic  flowers.  At  times,  it  is  hard 
to  tell  the  half-caste  from  the  pure-blooded  white  man 
or  woman. 

The  last  remark  recalls  to  my  mind  a  little  incident 
that  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  mention  here.  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  heard  that  a  white  woman  was  residing 
near  Matautu,  Savaii  Isle.  He  at  once  made  up  his 
mind  to  go  and  see  this  lady — a  natural  enough  wish 
in  those  remote  isles,  "  where  white  men  will  tramp 
miles  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  white  woman."  Well, 


230  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

R.L.S.  hired  a  boat  from  a  half-caste  who  was  a  store- 
keeper, and  with  whom  I  was  staying  at  that  time. 
And  so  it  happened  that  I  and  the  mate  of  a  schooner 
had  the  pleasure  of  accompanying  R.L.S.  in  the  boat. 
After  a  long,  very  wearying  row  from  Manono,  for  it 
was  a  terrifically  hot  day,  we  arrived  off  the  coast  of 
Savaii.  Even  then  we  had  to  go  ashore  and  tramp 
over  two  miles  before  we  could  reach  the  bungalow 
where  the  white  lady  resided.  When  we  did  arrive, 
Stevenson  was  nearly  "  dead-beat,"  and  struck  me  as 
irritated  and  fatigued.  It  was  with  much  relief  that 
the  three  of  us  at  length  passed  under  the  shade  of 
the  mango-trees  that  sheltered  the  approach  to  the  bun- 
galow. 

"Where's  the  white  lady?"  said  Stevenson,  speaking 
in  rather  a  sharp  manner  to  a  tawny-looking  female 
who  wore  a  small  dark  moustache  and  happened  to  be 
looking  out  of  the  bungalow's  doorway.  To  our  aston- 
ishment the  woman  screwed  her  mouth  up  and  shrieked 
out: 

"  What  white  lady  ? — damn  yer  eyes !  " 

Stevenson's  consternation  and  my  own  can  be  better 
imagined  than  described,  when  I  say  that  the  sun-tanned, 
brown-skinned,  vulgar-looking  woman  who  addressed  us 
was  the  beautiful  white  lady  herself!  And,  if  I  may 
say  so,  she  was  a  good  specimen  of  the  white  lady  to 
be  found  in  the  South  Seas  in  those  days. 

"'Ave  a  beer,  old  party?"  she  said  to  R.L.S.,  who 
had  astutely  apologized  and  cursed  the  hot  sunlight  that, 
sh-ining  in  his  eyes,  had  made  him  so  colour-blind. 

Stevenson's  tact,  after  that  grievous  mistake,  had  a 
magical  effect  on  the  manners  of  our  countrywoman. 
She  fastened  a  flower  on  R.L.S. 's  coat. 

"  Say  when ! "  she  said  to  the  mate,  as  she  clutched 
the  gin  bottle,  holding  it  high  as  she  filled  the  glass. 


R.  L.  S.  IN  SAMOA  231 

Then  she  smacked  me  on  the  back,  and  filled  with 
beer  a  huge  receptacle  that  looked  like  one  of  those 
fancy  glasses  wherein  one  keeps  goldfish.  I  think  Steven- 
son had  whisky.  I  know  he  enjoyed  the  situation.  The 
lady  made  eyes  at  R.L.S.  and  the  mate  too.  She  swore 
and  behaved  with  the  convivial  vulgarity  that  is  the 
sole  prerogative  of  the  low-caste  British  woman.  I  know 
that  the  Samoan  servant-maid  blushed  as  her  mistress 
complained  of  the  "  'orrible  'eat,"  and  pulled  her  dress 
down  below  her  Camberwell-South-East  bosom.  Who 
she  was,  why  she  was  there  alone  in  that  bungalow,  only 
God  knows.  I  recall  that  she  nudged  Stevenson  in  the 
ribs  and  said  she  came  from  "  Camberwool  Sarth-East" 
She  swore  at  everything  in  Samoa,  and  said  that  she 
never  went  "  art  of  a  night  because  she  knew  the  blasted 
natives  were  cannyballs ! "  Stevenson's  face  during  all 
this  was  a  perfect  study  in  self-control  and  amused  polite- 
ness; and  nothing  off  the  stage  could  possibly  outrival  his 
simulated  interest  and  his  convivial  ejaculation  of  "  Well 
now !  "  as  she  finished  each  breezy  yarn  and  ribald  joke. 

The  mate  was  a  London  man. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  '  Pig  and  Whistle '  ?  "  she 
screamed,  as  she  plunged  into  reminiscent  talk  about  the 
"  old  homeland,"  smacked  the  mate  on  the  shoulder, 
and  pinched  my  leg!  She  insisted  on  filling  our  glasses 
again  and  again.  She  commenced  to  sing.  Her  wild, 
silvery  laughter  rippled  about  our  ears,  mesmerized  us 
all,  and  made  the  roosting  parakeets  in  the  orange- 
trees  outside  rise,  flutter  and  shriek  with  fright. 
Stevenson  was  the  first  to  attempt  to  withdraw  from 
that  little  realistic  drama  of  life  in  a  South  Sea  bungalow. 
His  aesthetic,  intellectual-looking  face  became  shadowed 
with  a  fierce  determination  as  the  wild  familiarities  of 
the  woman  asserted  themselves.  He  bowed  with  urbane 
politeness  as  he  rose  from  the  table. 


232  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

"  Git  the  gentleman's  'at,  yer  little  brown-skinned 
slut !  "  she  yelled. 

In  a  moment  the  trembling  Polynesian  maid  made  a 
dive  for  Stevenson's  old  peaked  cap.  Stevenson  was 
still  expressing  in  his  politest  terms  the  pleasure  he  felt 
at  meeting  the  lady  in  the  island. 

"  Stow  it,  yer  son  of  a  gun !  No  politeness  'ere !  You 
know  where  to  find  me,  and  don't  forget  me  when  yer 
comes  this  way ! "  she  said,  as  we  passed  through  the 
doorway. 

Stevenson  nearly  fell  down  her  bungalow's  five  steps 
as  she  yelled  forth  a  volley  of  ribald  farewells.  The 
relief  of  that  parting  was  very  evident  on  Stevenson's 
face.  He  chuckled  like  a  schoolboy  when  we  had  em- 
barked and  were  all  rowing  our  hardest,  far  away,  safe 
out  at  sea. 

But  to  return  to  O  Le  Langi.  Many  of  the  old-time 
chiefs  of  Langi's  type  were  faithful  to  their  old  creeds 
in  many  ways,  and  lived  just  as  they  had  done  in  the 
heathen  days.  Indeed,  Langi  lived  as  though  white  men 
had  never  trod  on  his  isles.  He  was  deeply  imbued 
with  the  old  commercial  spirit.  Like  the  mediaeval  mer- 
chants of  Cathay  who  travelled  far  with  their  scented 
merchandise,  Langi  would  go  wandering  from  village 
to  village  and  isle  to  isle.  True  enough,  he  did  not 
travel  with  a  camel  across  mighty  deserts,  but  was  his 
own  caravan;  for  he  carried,  by  the  aid  o  fa  large  cala- 
bash slung  over  his  own  hump,  not  sandalwood,  topazes, 
diamonds,  and  opals  for  mummies'  eyes,  but  set  off 
with  pink  shells,  corals,  tappa-cloth,  and  magic  charms 
that  had  been  warmed  by  the  soft  bosoms  of  mighty 
queens  on  their  wedding-nights.  These  charms  were 
small  precious  stones  that  he  ran  through  his  fingers 
whilst  mumbling  his  pagan  prayers. 

"What  may  they  be,  those  little  shining  stones,   O 


R.  L.  S.  IN  SAMOA  233 

mighty  O  Le  Langi  ?  "  said  I  one  night,  as  he  trickled 
the  gems  through  his  ringers  and  gazed  in  a  most 
mysterious  way  on  the  stars.  He  then  informed  me 
that  they  were  the  old  magic  jewels  of  the  ancient 
Samoan  dynasty,  and  their  value  was  beyond  all  price. 
It  turned  out  that  they  had  once  been  threaded  on  the 
skeins  of  a  maiden's  hair  so  that  they  might  be  warmed 
on  the  virgin  bosom  of  her  whom  a  king  was  about  to 
take  to  wife.  It  appeared  that  on  the  eve  of  the  wedding 
the  royal  bride  slept  with  the  stones  warm  on  her  bosom, 
and  that  the  warmth  imparted  to  them  was  the  sapphire 
and  ruby  light  which  shone  in  their  depths  as  Langi 
ran  them  through  his  fingers. 

One  may  wonder  how  O  Le  Langi  obtained  possession 
of  the  magic  Cr-own  jewels  of  the  old  Samoan  dynasty; 
but  he  was  a  true  scribe  and,  possibly,  knew  the  ropes. 
Even  in  my  time,  kings  and  queens  were  not  too  severe 
in  Court  etiquette.  Here  I  will  simply  say  that,  through 
possessing  a  bottle  of  the  best  Holland  gin,  I  have 
received  the  highest  Court  honours  from  South  Sea 
Royalty.  Indeed,  I  was  once  offered  a  princess's  hand 
in  marriage,  as  well  as  being  presented  with  the  "  freedom 
of  the  pagan  city,"  because  the  half-blind  old  king  (in 
the  Paumotou  group)  had  been  told  by  his  head  chief 
that  I  had  a  flask  of  the  best  Jamaica  rum  in  my  coat 
pocket.  I  seldom  visited  South  Sea  Royalty  without  a 
bottle  of  gin  on  my  person. 

Langi  never  tired  of  expatiating  on  the  beauty  of  the 
Samoan  and  Marquesan  maidens  of  his  youth.  He 
would  lift  his  chin  to  the  sky,  and  curse  the  day  when 
the  maids  were  forced  by  the  missionaries  to  wear  the 
Europeans'  cast-off  clothing. 

"Ugh!  O  Papalagi  of  the  spirit-finger,  we  no  do 
cover  the  flowers  with  stink-cloth  and  so  hide  the  loveli- 
ness of  their  leaves;  then  why,  I  say,  should  new-time 


234  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

fool-men  cover  nicer  girls,  women,  and  mans  down  to 
feets?" 

So  raved  O  Le  Langi,  as  I  sympathetically  muttered: 
"  True !  true,  O  mighty  Langi !  " 

But  it  must  be  admitted  that  the  long  pink  and  blue- 
striped  night-gown-like  attire  of  the  maids  suited  them 
admirably.  It  was  a  pretty  sight  to  see  a  flock  of  native 
girls  running  along  the  shore  sands,  delighting  in  the 
windy  dishevelment,  as  they  stooped  and  clutched  the 
gowns  that  were  lifted  from  their  ankles  as  the  warm, 
seductive  winds  blew  in.  And  it  must  be  confessed 
that  many  maids  who  delighted  in  brown  stockings 
would  sit  out  on  the  shore  reefs  purposely  to  court  the 
flirtations  of  the  winds  as  the  handsome  native  youths 
passed  by. 

Though  I  have  recorded  the  aforesaid  incidents,  they 
appear  trivial  enough  when  I  think  of  the  wonders  of 
pagan  life  and  the  poetic  mystery  of  a  South  Sea  forest 
that  flashes  on  the  inward  eye.  I  myself  have  more 
than  once  completely  lost  my  civilized  individuality  and 
become  part  of  the  South  Sea  forest  scene.  I  remember 
that  O  Le  Langi  once  took  me  away  to  a  secret  witch- 
hut  in  the  forest  near  Mootua.  Sunset  had  already 
thrown  the  silent  wooded  depths  into  deep  shadow  when 
Langi,  who  was  creeping  along  just  ahead  of  me,  heard 
a  suspicious  noise,  and  suddenly  stood  perfectly  still : 
his  tattooed  wrinkled  form  had  become  a  part  of  the 
forest!  his  arms  instinctively  bent,  twisted  at  the 
elbows,  represented  two  short,  broken  branch  stumps. 
Lo!  he  was  no  longer  O  Le  Langi,  but  was  a  gnarled 
spotted  tree-trunk  with  blinkless  eyes  and  carved  to 
resemble  man,  apparently  lifeless,  as  he  stood  with  ears 
alert  among  the  aged  banyan  stems!  Well,  just  as 
Langi's  primitive  instincts  came  to  his  assistance  and 
made  him  unrecognizable,  I  too  have  become  a  part  of 


R.  L.  S.  IN  SAMOA  235 

the  forest.  I  do  not  say  that  I  have  turned  into  a  human 
tree-stump;  but  I  have  stood  alone  in  the  silent  depths 
and  felt  my  inner  life  become  one  with  the  old  trees 
around  me.  It  was  as  though  my  conscious  life  was 
splashed  in  spiritual  colours  over  the  leaves.  I  felt  some 
old  sense  exude  from  my  being,  like  warm  blood,  and 
dye  the  forest  depth  with  the  sunset's  golden  glory  and 
poetic  mystery  that  lay  hushed  on  the  branched  luxuriant 
tropical  growth  about  me. 

Of  O  Le  Langi's  musical  ability  I  can  say  but  little. 
It  would  require  a  genius  to  describe  the  universal  music 
of  his  gifts.  He  was  a  true  primitive  literary  man  and, 
therefore,  like  most  true  literary  men,  was  a  musician  in 
the  deeper  meaning  of  that  word.  Langi  could  hear  the 
grandeur  of  Creation's  harmony  and  that  still,  small 
voice  of  humanity  that  cannot  possibly  express  itself  by 
riddling  on  catgut  or  blowing  on  brass.  I  can  only  say 
that  Langi  wrote  a  great  symphony  that  my  memory  has 
vainly  striven  to  play  in  these  after  years.  The  memory 
of  his  face  and  deep-set,  poetic  eyes  seems  to  me  as  of 
some  weird,  conscious  embodiment  of  all  the  sublimity 
of  the  rugged  mountains  and  sunlit  palms,  the  unheard 
harmonies  of  the  moon-ridden  seas  and  lagoons  from 
Samoa  to  the  Solomons,  and  again  from  Fiji  to  Tahiti 
and  the  far-off  Poutomous.  Those  old  forests  are,  to 
me,  O  Le  Langi's  now  dead  whitening  bones,  where 
through  the  warm  sea-winds  whistle  wonderful  legends 
that  his  tongue  once  uttered  forth. 

It  was  years  after  that  I  went  to  Apia  again  and  stood 
by  his  grave.  It  is  situated  by  Safata  village.  I  noticed 
that  they  had  placed  a  wooden  cross  over  the  spot,  and 
on  it  was  written: 

"  Here  lies  O  Le  Langi. 

Died  Feb.   14,   1908." 
"  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God." 


236  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

He  had  undoubtedly  been  buried  by  the  residential 
ecclesiastics;  and  the  spiritual  text  chosen  by  them  for 
his  memorial  cross  showed,  to  me  at  least,  that  mission- 
aries often  speak  great  truths  about  dead  men. 

I  had  it  in  my  mind  to  finish  this  chapter  with  a  critical 
discourse  on  native  and  European  styles  of  music;  but 
I  feel  that  I  am  not  able  to  do  the  subject  justice.  I  am 
too  liable  to  be  influenced  by  the  maze  of  melodies  that 
are  always  playing  in  the  great  invincible  orchestral 
world  of  my  memory.  There  are  some,  too,  who  would 
consider  my  taste  for  music  decidedly  vulgar.  Indeed, 
one  night,  whilst  stopping  at  an  old  inn  on  my  north- 
west travels,  I  heard  a  barrel-organ  being  played  outside 
on  the  main  country  road.  Looking  out  of  the  window, 
I  saw  a  melancholy-visaged,  white-whiskered,  weird-look- 
ing foreigner  turning  the  handle  of  a  derelict  barrel- 
organ  that  stood  on  one  leg.  It  was  an  old  melody 
that  it  played,  a  ballad  that  I  had  been  familiar  with 
in  my  childhood.  Its  dismal  groan  thrilled  my  soul. 
It  took  me  across  the  years!  I  heard  the  laughter  of 
my  brothers  and  sisters  and  the  forgotten  strummings 
of  the  old  piano.  The  old  inn  was  transmuted — it  stood 
on  the  grey  night-hills  of  another  age.  I  peeped  through 
the  window-blind  and  saw  that  weird  old  organ-grinder, 
just  visible  by  the  mingy  gleam  of  the  one  lamp-post's 
flickering  light.  He  had  a  strange  look  about  him.  He 
wore  a  most  suitable  slouched  hat,  too!  He  seemed  to 
me  some  ambassador  of  Fate  who  had  been  sent  out  of 
the  night  to  appeal  to  my  soul.  I  fancied  that  the  stars 
and  the  moon  went  round  as  he  turned  that  handle. 
"Play  on!  Play  on!"  I  gasped  mentally;  and  so  the 
vision  of  sight  and  sound  continued,  yes,  as  I  listened 
to  the  grand  opera  of  my  existence.  The  semi-sad,  half- 
gay  ballad  that  he  played  touched  my  heart-strings;  the 


R.  L.  S.  IN  SAMOA  237 

stars  waved  bright  hands,  dead  laughter  and  beautiful, 
half-forgotten  voices  of  long  ago  murmured  to  the  wail- 
ing accompaniment  of  the  poplar-trees  that  surely  sighed 
over  old  memories  just  across  the  road.  I  even  saw 
the  ghost  of  the  little,  curly-headed  Italian  troubadour 
girl  creep  into  our  old  front  garden  again,  and  once 
more  commence  to  play  "  Santa  Lucia  "  on  her  accordion. 
What  maestro  ever  played  as  soul  fully  as  she  played 
for  my  ears? — Her  voice?  Oh,  music  inexpressibly 
beautiful!  Ah,  the  cleverness  of  that  surreptitious 
special  smile  for  me,  as  she  peered  sideways  through 
her  thrush-brown  tresses  up  at  our  castle  window!  I 
thought  of  my  passion  for  her,  of  my  betrothal  to  that 
pretty,  red-rose-lipped  vagabondess  of  the  south  when  I 
was  ten  years  old;  of  my  austere  father's  wrath  when 
our  plans  for  the  elopement  were  discovered,  of  my 
mother's  horror — and  of  my  shame!  Alas!  Let  men 
and  women  go  to  the  grand  opera,  let  the  mighty 
cathedral  organs  of  the  world  thunder  and  moan  till 
their  hearts  are  touched;  but  oh,  give  me  a  one-legged 
barrel-organ  under  the  poplar  trees  outside  the  window 
of  some  old  inn — playing  "  Santa  Lucia"  after  dark! 


CHAPTER  XII.  A  MOHAMMEDAN  BANQUET 

A  Child  of  American  Democracy — Rajah  Barab — Bar- 
barossa — Brown-Slave  traffic  Methods — Motavia's  Grave 
— The  Magic  Casement — The  Splendour  of  Rose-coloured 
Spectacles — Mohammedanistic  Desires — Giovanni's  Love 
Affairs — Exit  Barab. 

I  WAS  more  than  pleased  to  make  the  acquaintance 
of  Giovonni  as  I  wandered  about  Apia.  This  new- 
found comrade  was  a  clever  artist  on  the  guitar,  and  our 
kindred  tastes  and  mutual  cashlessness  was  the  direct 
cause  of  our  forming  a  trio  for  troubadour  purposes. 
To  our  great  satisfaction,  we  came  across  another  who 
was  in  a  hard-up  state :  he  was  a  derelict  Yankee  sailor- 
man,  and  he  told  us  he  had  been  an  operatic  singer  in 
his  youth.  Whether  he  strayed  from  the  truth  in  swear- 
ing that  he  had  charmed  select  audiences  by  his  vocal 
accomplishments,  I  cannot  say.  I  do  know  that,  when 
he  sang,  his  peculiar  twang  and  extraordinary  facial 
contortions  at  our  wandering  concerts  amply  made  up 
for  the  disinteresting  drone  of  his  wheezy  voice.  He 
accompanied  Giovanni  and  myself  on  our  wanderings 
for  many  miles,  as  we  visited  Savaii  Isle  and  the  old 
townships,  Palaulae,  Asaua,  Matautu,  Safune,  Monono, 
also  Sufatea,  and  all  the  important  native  villages. 
Our  Yankee  comrade's  swashbuckling  deportment  at  our 
numerous  engagements  at  the  high-class  native  fale-po-ula 
(court  dance  houses)  caused  Giovanni  and  myself  a  good 
deal  of  embarrassment.  The  fact  is  that  his  facial  con- 
tortions and  voice  seemed  to  appeal  especially  to  the 
seasoned  shellbacks  and  traders  who  congregated  outside 

238 


A  MOHAMMEDAN  BANQUET      239 

the  grog-shanties  as  we  stood  beneath  the  palms  and  sang 
and  played  on  our  instruments.  And  if  it  is  a  compli- 
mentary sign  to  have  had  a  large  bouquet  in  the  shape  of  a 
putrid  crab  put  into  the  collecting  calabash-dish  at  our 
great  mixed  concert-festival  down  at  Apia,  then,  all  I 
can  say  is  that  the  melee  that  followed  the  aforesaid 
donation  was  a  decided  success.  Anyhow,  Billy-goat 
whiskers,  for  so  we  called  him,  was  not  to  blame.  He 
was  the  natural  child  of  a  vast  Republic  that  has  no 
historical,  dynastic  background  such  as  the  Samoans 
and  most  of  the  South  Sea  races  can  claim  in  their 
history.  Consequently  Billy-goat  whiskers  had  based  all 
his  ideas  and  ideals  on  the  tinker-president-everyman- 
as-good-as-another  creed,  and  he  was  a  fine  specimen  of 
the  Yankee  swanker.  The  American  is  unborn  who 
could  imitate  the  splendid  bearing  that  distinguishes  a 
Fijian  or  Samoan  chief.  Most  of  the  savage  races  have 
a  splendid  historical  and  legendary  background  that  has 
influenced  their  actions  from  earliest  childhood,  much 
the  same  as  French  boys  are  influenced  by  the  elegant 
bearing  and  gallant  manners  of  the  characters  in  their 
country's  historical  novels,  such  as  Dumas'  works,  etc. 
And  so  our  Yankee's  apparently  vulgar  ways  were  only 
the  perfectly  natural  expression  of  a  great  democracy 
that  has  grown  out  of  the  soul  of  the  people.  But  our 
pal  was  a  brave,  right  down  good  fellow.  His  one  fault 
was  rum  and  gin.  He  carried  his  rum-flask,  beard-comb, 
and  pack  of  cards  in  a  large  handkerchief  that  was 
emblazoned  with  the  stars  and  stripes.  He  had  short, 
supple  legs,  and  could  suck  his  big  toe  like  a  baby.  I  can 
swear  to  that  peculiarity  of  his,  for  when  he  had  a  touch 
of  the  D.T.'s  he  sat  up  in  bed  the  whole  night  long  and 
made  a  most  irritating  noise  while  using  his  big  toe  as 
a  dummy  in  lieu  of  whisky.  But,  withal,  it  is  not  my 
intention  to  write  about  our  Yankee  comrade.  I  will 


240  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

just  finish  him  off  by  saying  that  it  was  he  who  intro- 
duced us  to  Rajah  Barab  the  Mohammedan.  Rajah 
Barab  was  a  Malayo-Indian.  He  had  once  lived  in 
German  New  Guinea,  but  for  sound  reasons  had 
hastily  migrated  to  Samoa.  He  lived  just  outside 
Apia. 

Though  this  Mohammedan's  dwelling  looked  like  some 
three-roomed  cow-shed,  it  was  really  the  deserted  an- 
cestral hall  of  the  great  chief  O  Le  Sula  Motavia,  a 
heathen  divine  who  had  had  his  skull  blown  off  in  the 
tribal  war  of  1885.  This  dwelling  was  situated  about 
two  miles  south-west,  on  the  slopes  of  Vaea  and  not  so 
far  from  Robert  Louis  Stevenson's  old  home,  Vailima. 
And  while  O  Le  Sula  Motavia  slept  on  in  his  cold  bed 
within  eight  yards  of  his  ancestral  front-door,  with  the 
large  orange  tree  spread  above,  and  the  blue  jungle 
flowers  blowing  over  him,  Rajah  Barab,  the  sinful 
Mohammedan,  sat  in  Motavia's  old  halls  drinking  deeply, 
as  warm-eyed  native  girls  danced  and  sang  before  him. 
Now  this  old  heathen's  homestead  had  not  been  turned 
exactly  into  a  tambu-hoiise  after  the  New  Guinea  style, 
for  Barab  had  no  idols  within.  But,  to  make  up  for 
those  wooden  images  that  were  usually  carved  so  as  to 
express  a  heathen's  ideas  of  Venus  and  jovial  Bacchus, 
Barab  himself  would  stand  erect  so  that  the  native 
maidens  could  worship  the  light  of  his  living  eyes  and 
kneel  in  complete  obeisance  at  his  sandalled  feet.  He 
made  a  fine  idol.  He  was  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  sinner. 
He  wore  a  richly-coloured  turban  and  waist-swathing 
which  he  well  knew  pleased  the  eyes  of  romantic  Samoan 
girls.  Perhaps  his  chief  adornment  was  his  long  iron- 
grey  beard.  He  swore  by  it  and  pulled  it  thoughtfully 
when  he  appeared  to  meditate  over  his  infinite  wisdom. 
And  when  he  squatted  half-erect  on  his  fibre  mat  before 
the  admiring,  awestruck  maids,  his  eyes  had  a  far-away 


A  MOHAMMEDAN  BANQUET      241 

gaze  in  them  that  seemed  to  have  kinship  with  the  vers 
libre  and  the  poetic  grin  that  enshrined  his  ugly  mug.  I 
say  "  mug  "  because  it  resembled  the  rim  of  a  mug,  and 
did  not  look  like  a  human  mouth  at  all.  And  7  should 
know,  because  I  was  a  witness  of  his  far-away-looking 
gaze  and  poetic  grin,  for  I  dined  with  him.  Truth  to  tell. 
Rajah  Barab  had  plenty  of  cash,  and  so  Giovanni  and 
myself,  both  in  a  cashless  state,  were  compelled  to  accept 
the  liberal  fee  which  he  offered  us  should  we  perform  on 
our  instruments  at  one  of  his  special  Mohammedan  fes- 
tivals. Our  Yankee  friend  was  down  with  the  delirium 
tremens  at  Apia  at  the  time.  It  was  unfortunate,  because 
I  know  that  he  would  have  been  a  great  help  to  us  that 
night. 

When  Giovanni  and  I  arrived  at  the  festival  in  ques- 
tion there  were  several  young  Indian  bloods  present 
amongst  the  visitors.  It  was  a  select  gathering,  inas- 
much as  Barab  had  invited  only  those  whose  sensual 
desires  were  akin  to  his  own.  The  moon  was  well  up, 
and  not  only  were  the  palms  visible  around  his  tambu- 
temple,  but  also  the  native  maids  who  danced  beneath 
them.  Ava  and  gin  were  plentiful.  Barab  stood  under 
the  large  palm-tree,  pulling  his  revered  beard  and  swear- 
ing by  his  Malayan  gods  and  Allah  as  he  watched  the 
scene.  As  Giovanni  rippled  pizzicatos  from  his  guitar 
and  I  played  my  violin,  we  watched  the  scene  with 
intense  interest.  There  was  something  phantom-like 
about  the  whole  business  as  the  girls  danced  amongst 
the  gnarled  pillars  of  that  primitive  forest-hall  of  giant 
trees.  The  native  girls,  who  had  stolen  away  from  the 
solicitude  of  the  missionaries,  gave  muffled  screams  of 
delight  and  did  such  high  kicks  that  the  coco-nut-oil 
lamps  swayed  violently.  I  might  say  that  these  lamps 
hung  from  the  palm  branches  that  were  immediately 
over  the  dancers'  heads.  One  maid  was  decidedly 


242  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

attractive.  Her  name  was  Barbarossa.  She  was  taste- 
fully arrayed  in  some  diaphanous  material  that  reached 
down  to  her  ankles.  Flowers  bedecked  her  thick,  wavy 
hair  that  rolled  loose  over  her  neck  and  shoulders. 
Moonlight  somehow  intensified  the  musical  rhythm  and 
charm  of  her  form,  as  she  swerved  in  many  semi-bar- 
barian postures.  While  all  this  was  going  on,  Barab 
squatted  on  his  old  coco-nut-fibre  mat,  his  body  erect. 
His  pose  was  that  of  an  Indian  seer,  and  the  chant  that 
he  mumbled  added  to  the  peculiar  weirdness  of  the 
scene.  Even  the  low-caste  Samoans,  who  stood  aside 
watching  the  performance,  called  out,  "  Talofa!  Talofa!  " 
demanding  an  encore  when  Barbarossa  finished  her 
dance.  As  soon  as  the  dance  was  over,  someone  banged 
a  drum,  and  that  barbarian  thump  seemed  to  echo  in 
my  heart  and  made  me  drop  my  fiddle,  so  startled  was 
I.  For  though  my  kind  ancestors  handed  down  to  me 
a  pair  of  rose-coloured  spectacles  so  that  I  might  see 
life  as  they  saw  it,  they  also  presented  me  with  a  nervous 
temperament;  consequently  anything  of  a  sudden  surprise 
is  peculiarly  hateful  to  me.  This  inherited  nerve  of  mine 
was  possibly  the  cause  of  my  accepting  the  drink  of  gin 
and  lime-juice  that  Barab  so  artfully  offered  to  Giovanni 
and  myself  as  we  sat  that  night  at  the  festival  board  of 
his  tambu-harem.  Giovanni  sat  beside  Barbarossa,  and 
I  sat  right  opposite  them.  I  was  wedged  in  by  Barab  on 
one  side  of  me  and  a  Malay  Chinaman  on  the  other  side. 
I  confess  here  that  I  felt  the  degradation  of  my  position, 
and  can  assume  from  that  fact  that  I  must  have  been 
perfectly  sober.  It  was  a  low,  long  table  lit  up  by  a  host 
of  small  hanging-lamps  that  were  suspended  from  the 
wooden  ceiling  by  threads  from  sennit  string.  I  remem- 
ber that  the  girls,  who  sat  along  each  side,  were  all  more 
or  less  in  a  maudlin  condition  as  the  fumes  of  the  gin  and 
"  ava  "  rose  to  their  weak,  feminine  brains.  My  mem- 


A  MOHAMMEDAN  BANQUET      243 

ory  is  a  brilliant  one !  I  distinctly  recall  the  wonder  and 
feverish  look  that  shone  in  their  dark  eyes  as  the  glasses 
clinked,  when  Barab  and  the  few  remaining  young  bloods 
of  his  kidney  roared  forth  toasts  to  their  beauty.  I  even 
remember  the  smell  of  the  Chinaman  who  sat  next  to 
me.  You  can  always  smell  a  Chinaman;  it  is  a  peculiar 
odour  that  suggests  something  between  orange-pekoe 
and  chloroform,  and  is  not  absolutely  offensive  unless 
you  happen  to  be  chewing  delicate  food  when  he  is  by. 
As  the  maids  drank  on,  Barab  grew  extremely  excited, 
and  banged  his  fists  on  the  low  table  in  some  wild  delight 
of  anticipation.  Poor  Giovanni  had  fallen  madly  in 
love  with  Barbarossa.  The  fact  was  only  too  evident 
by  all  that  he  did.  True  enough,  Barbarossa  was  the 
queen  of  the  evening.  As  she  sat  there  at  the  table,  her 
eyes  ashine  and  her  loosened  tresses  stirred  by  the 
scented  winds  that  blew  through  the  open  doorway, 
she  looked  out  of  place  amongst  the  other  thick-lipped, 
sensual-looking  girls.  It  was  very  evident,  by  the  look 
in  Barab's  eyes,  that  he  regarded  her  as  the  piece  de 
resistance  of  that  festival  meeting.  However,  Giovanni 
was  handsome  and  Barab's  chances  were  small.  Giovanni 
was  evidently  not  letting  the  grass  grow  under  his  feet. 
I  shall  simply  state  that  he  behaved  like  the  true  Italian 
cavalier  that  he  was,  and  that  I  more  than  once  lifted 
my  glass  and  drank  secretly  to  my  pal's  success  in  his 
romantic  courtship.  I  felt  a  bit  muddled,  it  was  all  so 
unexpected  and  sudden.  At  that  time  I  was  not  aware 
that  Barab's  festival  programme  was  to  get  the  girls 
quite  drunk  and  then  close  and  tightly  bolt  the  door  of 
his  tambu-house.  I  really  thought  that  he  had  taken 
a  violent  fancy  to  Barbarossa  and  intended  to  offer  her 
his  swarthy  hand  in  marriage  according  to  the  Malay 
Mohammedan  rites.  I  must  admit  that  I  was  not  at 
all  aware  of  the  Malay  Mohammedan  marriage  rite 


244  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

procedure  when  one  of  the  sect  took  a  fancy  to  a  certain 
maid.  I  know  that  Barbarossa  was  an  innocent  girl. 
I  discovered  afterwards  that  she  had  been  enticed  to 
attend  that  festival  by  a  dissolute  native  missionary 
who  had  accepted  a  large  bribe  from  Barab.  Just  as 
there  are  dissolute  houses  in  European  cities,  where  men 
indulge  in  the  white-slave  traffic,  so  were  there  estab- 
lishments for  trafficking  purposes  in  Samoa,  and  Barab's 
house  was  one  of  them.  When  Giovanni  and  I  saw 
through  the  drift  of  the  whole  vile  business,  we  deter- 
mined that  pretty  Barbarossa  should  not  fall  into  Barab's 
clutches  if  we  could  help  her.  We  both  knew  that  Barab 
had  a  bad  reputation;  and,  though  he  was  our  host  and 
had  paid  us  well,  our  self-respect  should  have  prevented 
us  from  accepting  his  money.  But  it  must  be  confessed 
here  that  Giovanni  and  I  were  not  to  be  numbered 
amongst  those  virtuous  folk  who  would  rather  die  than 
sell  their  honour.  Alas,  many  and  many  a  time  I  would 
much  rather  have  sold  my  honour  than  nearly  died! 
The  best  of  men  have  their  weaknesses.  I  know  that 
even  that  dear  old  tattooed  clergyman,  O  Le  Langi,  had 
often  fallen  before  the  lure  of  a  few  half-crowns  when 
victuals  were  scarce. 

As  soon  as  the  festival  itself  was  finished,  Giovanni 
and  I  stole  outside  the  tambu-house  and  talked  the 
matter  over.  In  a  very  little  time  we  had  decided  to 
secure  Barbarossa's  person  by  force  sooner  than  she 
should  fall  into  Barab's  hands. 

"  Ah,  comrade,  he  cursed  una  vipera !  "  said  my  Italian 
chum.  Then  he  looked  at  me  sadly  and  said  :  "  Will  you 
stick  to  me,  and  mine  friend  be  ?  " 

"  I  will !  "  I  responded  most  emphatically.  Giovanni 
was  a  big  lump  of  a  fellow  and  had  courage  written  in 
the  light  of  his  magnificent  eyes;  also,  the  idea  of 
rescuing  Barbarossa  from  her  peril  suited  my  tempera- 


A  MOHAMMEDAN  BANQUET      245 

ment  exactly.  We  counted  out  the  cash  that  Barab 
had  given  us  directly  the  feast  was  over,  then  we  looked 
significantly  at  each  other,  for  he  had  paid  us  several 
marks  more  than  were  due  to  us.  "  He  wants  to  get 
rid  of  us  at  once,  no  doubt  of  that,"  was  my  reflection, 
as  I  looked  at  Giovanni's  handsome  face  and  then  on 
the  moonlit  solitude  of  the  mountain  slopes  around  dead 
Motavia's  old  homestead.  Then  we  walked  back, 
treading  very  softly  through  the  jungle  as  we  approached 
the  tambu  shed.  Already  the  small  lamp-lights  on  the 
palms  and  within  those  wooden  walls  were  burning  low. 
We  listened,  and  heard  the  low  wail  of  some  Malayan 
chanty ;  then  the  drunken  song  ceased. 

"What's  that?"  whispered  Giovanni.  The  door  had 
suddenly  opened,  and  we  saw  two  of  the  young  bloods 
departing.  Off  they  went,  with  three  drunken  native 
girls  staggering  between  them.  So  brilliant  was  the 
light  of  the  moon  that  we  distinctly  observed  the  girls' 
faces  as  they  tossed  their  legs  and  shook  the  brass  arm- 
lets, and  kissed  the  shoulders  of  the  men  who  were 
leading  them  away.  As  soon  as  the  men  were  out  of 
sight  we  listened  again.  All  was  quiet;  it  was  evident 
that  most  of  the  girls  who  remained  within  the  tambu 
had  fallen  off  into  drunken  slumber.  Barbarossa  had 
sung  her  swan-song  (so  thought  Rajah  Barab).  We 
heard  a  click;  the  Rajah  had  closed  the  door  and  bolted 
it!  That  much  we  discovered  as  we  crept  around  the 
walls  of  that  den  and  endeavoured  to  see  what  was  go- 
ing on  within. 

"  Wait  a  bit !"  said  Giovanni,  as  we  suddenly  heard 
someone  commence  to  drone  out  a  weird  heathen 
melody.  It  was  a  girl's  voice.  Then  all  was  silent 
again.  We  both  knew  that  Barab  would  soon  be  drunk 
and  in  a  suitable  condition  for  our  immediate  desires, 
and  so  we  strolled  up  and  down  under  the  palms.  Then 


246  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

we  heard  the  O  Le  mao  commence  to  sing  somewhere 
up  in  the  lime  trees. 

"  It's  pretty  silent  now;  that  bird  wouldn't  sing  if 
there  were  any  suspicious  noises  about,"  said  I. 

"  Yes,  comrade,  'tis  so,"  whispered  Giovanni,  push- 
ing his  curls  off  his  forehead  and  puffing  his  cigarette. 
I  noticed  that  his  lips  were  tightly  set  as  he  swung  his 
huge,  knotted  stick  to  and  fro  and  gave  swift  glances 
towards  the  dark-walled  homestead  before  us.  Then 
we  slowly  crept  towards  the  den  again.  The  brilliant 
moonlight  lit  up  the  thatched  roof  and  sent  a  ghostly 
glimmering  all  along  the  front  of  the  bamboo  verandah. 
I  was  standing  just  over  old  chief  Motavia's  grave; 
the  moonbeams  were  softly  falling  through  the  branches 
of  the  orange  tree  and  had  spread  a  silver  radiance  on 
my  feet,  which  stood  close  to  the  wooden  cross  that  said : 
"  Here  lies  the  brave  chief,  O  Le  Sula  Motavia."  I  felt 
sad  to  think  how  soundly  dead  men  slept.  I  knew  how 
handy  that  chief  would  have  been  to  us  that  night,  how 
gladly  he  would  have  jumped  from  his  slumber  to  help 
us  to  repel  the  base  intruder  from  his  old  homestead. 

"  Come  on!  "  I  whispered  to  Giovanni,  as  we  brushed 
the  ferns  aside  and  stole  softly  towards  the  single  window 
of  the  den.  In  a  moment  we  were  both  eagerly  peering 
through  the  lattice- work  of  the  wide,  low  window-hole. 
It  was  a  true  South  Sea  magic  casement  that  opened  on 
the  feathery  foam  of  palms,  leafy  tamanu,  and  masa'  oi 
trees  which  grew  right  up  to  the  mountain  slopes.  There 
was  something  fairy-like  but  tragic  in  the  silent  moon- 
lit scene  outside  that  window.  But  the  most  wonderful 
sight  to  be  seen  through  the  casement  was  the  scene 
before  our  eyes  as  we  both  stared  between  the  twisted 
wicker-work  and  saw  behind  the  shutter  into  the  gloom 
of  that  room.  There  sat  Rajah  Barab,  quite  visible  by 
the  dim  light  of  the  hanging  roof  oil-lamp.  He  was  so 


A  MOHAMMEDAN  BANQUET      247 

drunk  that  he  could  hardly  stoop  forward  to  pull  off  his 
sandals.  Two  of  the  young  bloods  still  remained,  but, 
to  our  relief,  we  noticed  that  they  were  prone,  quite 
drunk.  Pretty  Barbarossa,  Maroa,  Niue,  Singa  Saloo, 
Fae  moa  Oi,  and  Winga,  the  native  missionary's  daugh- 
ter— and  who  was  not  a  day  older  than  fourteen  years — 
lay  on  the  mats  in  deep  slumber.  I  know  that  my  heart 
echoed  the  sigh  that  Giovanni  gave,  as,  with  eyes  glued 
to  the  casement,  we  gazed  in  mute  astonishment.  There 
lay  the  victims  of  the  Mohammedan's  gold,  vers  libres, 
and  hyprocrisy.  No  sign  of  vice  was  expressed  on  the 
girls'  faces  as  they  lay  there,  their  bodies  half-couched  in 
the  flood  of  moonlight  that  fell  across  the  corner  of  the 
room.  The  sham  jewellery  that  had  evidently  tempted 
them  was  distinctly  visible — bangles  on  their  legs,  arm- 
lets on  their  arms.  Two  or  three  had  silk  handkerchiefs 
of  brilliant  colours  about  their  throats,  the  ends  tied 
bow-wise,  native-fashion,  in  the  folds  of  their  much- 
disordered  hair.  The  heat  was  terrific.  A  few  fireflies 
had  entered  the  room.  We  distinctly  saw  them  gleam 
and  flash  as  they  danced  like  miniature  starry  con- 
stellations over  the  prone  forms  of  the  girls.  In  the 
helpless  abandonment  of  their  drink-enforced  slumber, 
their  limbs  were  thrown  about  in  the  various  attitudes 
of  restless  sleep.  Three  of  the  girls  lay  with  their  arms 
half-entwined,  as  though  in  some  swift  realization  and 
fright  over  their  position  they  had  clung  to  each  other 
ere  they  fell  and  lost  consciousness.  "  Cara,  bellissima !  " 
Giovanni  breathed  forth  as  he  gazed  on  Barbarossa's 
slumbering  abandonment.  Her  pretty  blue  robe  was  dis- 
arranged, revealing  the  curves  of  one  tiny  ankle;  her 
olive-hued  heel  was  visible  too,  for  the  ribbon  had  be- 
come loose,  the  tiny  sandal  had  fallen  half  off. 

"  Mia  bella !  mia  bellissima !  "  whispered  Giovanni,  as 
he  gazed  in  romantic  rapture  on  her  form.      '  Yes,  she 


248  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

must  be  saved,"  I  said,  as  Giovanni  murmured  on  in  his 
musical,  impassioned  language,  saying  things  that  needed 
no  translation  for  my  sympathetic  ears  and  eyes!  No 
shame  have  I  in  writing  down  these  things  for  the  eyes 
of  whoever  may  wish  to  read.  I  think,  if  anything, 
that  my  thoughts  were  less  creditable  than  Giovanni's. 
My  Italian  comrade  was  in  love,  but  where  was  the 
excuse  for  my  own  impassioned  glance?  Why  should 
the  curves  of  an  ankle  haunt  my  dreams  for  days? 
But  let  it  pass.  There  are  many  who  may  understand 
and  forgive.  A  maiden's  ankle,  a  tress  of  hair,  a  side 
glance  from  lustrous  eyes,  a  ribbon  round  a  throat,  have 
turned  the  good  thoughts  of  many  a  man  from  the  im- 
mediate matter  in  hand.  Just  beside  the  large  calabash 
and  overturned  pickle  barrel  lay  Barbarossa's  boon  friend, 
Mademoiselle  Singa  Saloo ;  and  the  helpless  abandonment 
of  her  sensuous  beauty  expressed  a  fascinating  twinship 
with  all  that  Barbarossa's  enforced  recumbency  revealed. 
It  seemed  that  even  the  moon  would  abet  the  inquisi- 
tiveness  of  our  curious  eyes,  for  its  light  streamed 
through  the  chinks  of  the  bolted  door  and  so  revealed 
the  dusky  beauty  of  the  girls'  faces.  The  cool  night 
winds  swept  down  the  mountain  slopes,  stirred  the  palms 
that  silently  threw  their  shadows  over  the  wooden  walls 
and  along  the  floor  where  Barab's  huddled  victims  lay. 
Lying  there,  victims  of  Barab's  peculiar  desires,  they 
looked  like  big  sleeping  babies.  One  had  her  arm  out- 
stretched as  though  she  knew  the  limpness  of  death, 
while  the  other  hand  pillowed  her  head.  Only  the  faint 
flutter  of  her  delicate  blue  throat-kerchief,  following 
the  regular  intervals  of  her  breathing,  told  that  life 
existed. 

Barab  had  risen  to  his  feet.  His  eyes  shone  with  some 
terrible  light  as  he  gazed  on  the  helpless  girls.  "  By 
the  gods  of  Olympus !  "  blurted  out  Giovanni  as  a  puff 


A  MOHAMMEDAN  BANQUET      249 

of  wind  blew  his  hat  off.  The  Mohammedan  had  lifted 
a  goblet  of  liquor  to  his  lips.  We  saw  him  sway  vio- 
lently as  he  drank.  "  He's  half-seas-over !  "  was  my 
joyful  comment.  He  had  drawn  himself  erect  and  had 
passed  his  hand  across  his  brow  as  though  he  would 
muster  up  his  drowsy  senses.  Suddenly  one  of  the  girls 
in  the  farther  corner  lifted  her  head  and  looked  about 
her  with  vacant  eyes.  She  lifted  one  hand  and  swayed 
it  as  though  she  were  dreaming  that  she  conducted  some 
musical  chant  in  her  native  village.  She  staggered  to 
her  feet.  Giovanni  and  I  watched,  breathless,  in  our 
excitement  and  intense  curiosity.  What  was  she  going 
to  do  ?  Had  she  in  that  moment  realized  the  degradation 
of  her  position,  and  would  she  attempt  to  escape?  Our 
very  breath  frightened  us  as  it  stirred  the  slender  vine 
leaves  that  clustered  there  by  our  open  mouths  and  eyes 
as  we  stared  through  the  casement.  The  girl  was  stag- 
gering across  the  room,  making  for  Barab.  He  stood 
erect,  his  turban  askew,  one  swarthy  hand  holding  his 
beard  as  if  he  had  the  impertinence  to  pose  for  the 
occasion.  We  saw  the  girl's  bare  feet  slip  on  the  wooden 
floor  as  she  lurched  to  his  side  and  gave  him  a  drunken 
leer!  "Well  now!"  was  our  only  comment,  as  she 
tossed  her  left  leg  till  the  brass  bangles  that  encircled  her 
limbs  jingled! 

"  Oh,  handsome  Mohamy  clergyman ! "  she  babbled. 

"  Phew!  "  was  our  simultaneous  ejaculation,  when  she 
lifted  her  face  and  kissed  Barab's  shoulder!  Such  a 
look  in  a  man's  eyes  I  had  never  seen  before.  The  girl 
had  embraced  him,  her  head  was  nursed  in  the  folds  of 
his  beard.  She  had  commenced  to  sing  some  weird 
heathen  melody  or  chant,  the  chorus  of  the  strain  she 
had  doubtless  been  singing  ere  she  lost  consciousness. 
There  was  something  indescribably  weird  in  the  sounds 
of  her  muffled  voice  as  she  still  sang  on,  her  mouth  buried 


250  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

deep  in  the  bushy  growth  of  that  Islamic  beard !  Barab 
seized  her  and  was  about  to  lead  her  from  the  room  into 
the  inner  chamber  wherein  Giovanni  and  I  had  not  been 
invited  to  enter. 

"  Now's  the  time !  Come  on !  "  said  I,  as  Giovanni 
nudged  me  in  the  ribs  to  intimate  that  he  had  success- 
fully placed  his  arm  through  the  window-hole  and  pulled 
the  door-bolt  back !  Crash !  The  door  opened  and  swung 
violently  to  and  fro,  so  fierce  had  been  my  thrust  as 
I  threw  my  whole  weight  against  it.  In  a  moment  Barab 
let  the  girl  drop  to  the  ground  and  turned  towards  us. 
The  muscles  stood  out  on  his  swelling  throat  like  whip- 
cord. He  had  whipped  his  kris  from  beneath  his  jer- 
kin. "  tiu  tidak  baik  Tuan!"  (this  is  not  friendly  of 
you),  he  roared,  as  we  stood  before  him.  Then  he 
noticed  the  look  in  our  eyes,  and  yelled  "Totong!" 
(help)  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  Fast  asleep  in  the  corner 
of  the  room  lay  two  young  bloods,  Malays.  In  a  moment 
they  had  leapt  to  their  feet.  The  immediate  outlook 
was  pretty  dark  for  Giovanni  and  me.  We  possessed  no 
firearms  at  all.  In  a  moment  I  placed  my  rose-coloured 
spectacles  on,  so  to  speak,  then,  bang!  it  went.  And  the 
reader  can  rest  assured  that  that  Islamic  cranium  received 
such  a  thump  that  its  scheming  interior  was  out  of  action 
for  some  time.  My  violin  case  was  broken,  cracked 
down  the  whole  length.  I  cared  not.  I  carefully  laid 
it  down  by  the  door  in  readiness  for  my  coming  hasty 
exit.  Giovanni,  who  was  taking  no  risks,  lifted  the 
wooden  table  and  let  it  drop  most  artistically  on  to 
Barab's  prostrate  form.  "  Allow  me ! "  said  I,  then  I 
lifted  the  large  calabash  of  pickle  oil  and  dashed  the 
whole  thing  in  the  face  of  the  young  blood  who  had  come 
to  tackle  me.  Then  the  left  cheek  of  the  other  one 
received  an  Olympic  punch  from  Giovanni.  And  then,  as 
carefully  as  possible,  I,  according  to  the  Scriptures,  smote 


A  MOHAMMEDAN  BANQUET      251 

him  on  the  right  cheek  as  he  turned  towards  me.  By 
this  time  the  native  girls  had  staggered  to  their  feet  and 
were  staring  about  them,  rubbing  their  eyes  as  though 
they  had  risen  in  astonishment  to  the  trump  of  the  resur- 
rection. 

"  Quick !  out  with  her !  "  I  said. 

In  a  moment  Giovanni  and  I  had  grabbed  Barbarossa 
by  the  arm. 

"  Aue !  Aue !  seo,  levu !  "  she  wailed,  as  she  looked 
around  her  in  wonder. 

But  still  we  dragged  her  on  by  the  arms.  As  I  rushed 
back  into  the  den  to  seize  my  violin,  the  large  table  was 
already  being  lifted  towards  the  roof  as  the  stricken 
Barab  heaved  his  back  up!  He  was  rotering  forth 
terrible  oaths  in  Malayan  lingo  as  I  once  more  made 
a  hurried  exit.  Barbarossa's  dishevelled  tresses  were 
streaming  to  the  caress  of  the  night  wind  when  I  got 
outside.  In  a  moment  I  had  once  more  gripped  her 
arm.  Arriving  at  the  top  of  the  slope  Giovanni  shook 
her  rather  roughly. 

"  Barbarossa,  remember !  "  he  whispered. 

For  a  moment  she  stared  vacantly  at  us,  and  then 
cried,  "  Aue !  Aue ! "  and  to  my  intense  relief  volun- 
tarily gripped  our  arms  as  we  ran  down  the  slopes. 
Barbarossa  became  our  eager  guide  after  that.  And 
though  it  is  years  ago  now,  I  can  still  hear  the  sounds 
of  her  feet  pattering  like  falling  rain  over  the  dead  leaves 
of  the  forest  ferns  as  we  follow  her  across  the  wild 
country  to  Mootuoa.  Again  Giovanni  and  I  lift  the 
coco-nut-shell  goblets  and  drink  a  toast  with  the  big 
tattooed  chief  who  is  Barbarossa's  father.  For  Bar- 
barossa took  us  safely  into  her  village  that  night.  And 
when  the  old  chiefs  and  their  womenkind  heard  about 
Barab's  sinful  ways  and  of  our  blessed  missionary  work, 
they  swore  to  club  Barab,  and  cheered  us  exceedingly. 


252  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

But  alas !  I  lost  my  dear  chum  Giovanni.  For  I  com- 
posed and  performed  a  special  betrothal  chant,  playing 
it  at  the  festival  that  made  Giovanni  Barbarossa's  legiti- 
mate tribal  fiance.  And  was  he  faithful  to  the  Samoan 
maid  ?  I  know  not.  But,  still,  I  do  know  that  Giovanni 
was  young  and  romantic.  And  I  would  not  be  surprised 
if,  as  the  years  rolled  by  Barbarossa  was  happy,  and 
little  children  who  could  speak  both  Italian  and  Samoan 
romped  about  her  knees.  Fine  children  too,  I  should 
think,  from  such  a  splendid  combination  from  the  two 
romantic  lands  of  the  Sunny  South. 

Such  was  my  personal  experience  of  the  Samoan 
Brown-Slave  Traffic.  And  I  might  say,  it  is  an  experi- 
ence that  I  have  considerably  toned  down  in  the  afore- 
said narrative.  As  I  have  already  intimated,  I  have 
included  this  experience  here  only  that  my  readers  may 
have  a  view  of  both  sides  of  native  life,  and  realize 
that  native  girls  and  women  are  subject  to  the  tempta- 
tions of  sensualists  much  the  same  as  their  sisters  in  the 
large  cities  of  the  civilized  world.  And  I  would  say 
that  it  is  a  pleasure  for  me  to  be  able  to  record  here 
that  Barab's  dwelling  was  razed  to  the  ground  by  the 
wrathful  chiefs  of  Barbarossa's  village.  True  enough,  it 
was  really  the  last  homestead  of  that  brave  old  chief 

0  Le  Matavia;  but  he  was  a  good  and  holy  heathen. 
And  so  one  might  well  imagine  that  the  flames  of  his 
corrupted  ancestral  halls  gave  cheerful  warmth  to  his 
ghost  and  cold  bones  as  he  slept  on  under  the  orange- 
tree,  just  outside. 

And  what  became  of  Barab  the  Mohammedan?     All 

1  can  say  is,  the  good  work  that  Giovanni  and  I  began 
was  finished  off  by  the  missionaries.    Barab  was  expelled 
from  Samoa,  and  hastened  seaward,  doubtless  to  seek 
fresh  converts  for  his  creed  in  other  lands. 


A  MOHAMMEDAN  BANQUET      253 

After  losing  Giovanni's  welcome  companionship,  I  felt 
very  lonely,  and  so  decided  to  go  seaward  again.  Though 
I  was  not  a  sailor  by  profession,  it  was  always  an  easy 
matter  for  me  to  get  a  ship.  I  think  I  had  an  ingratiating 
way  with  me  when  I  approached  the  mates  and  skippers. 
And  when  I  came  across  a  skipper  or  mate  with  a  face 
like  cast-iron  and  eyes  like  a  shark's,  which  I  often 
did,  I  changed  my  tactics.  For  I  approached  him  with 
my  violin  in  one  hand  and  a  bottle  of  the  best  Hollands 
in  the  other  hand.  I  invariably  found  that,  if  music 
does  not  soothe  the  savage  breast,  Hollands  gin  comes 
pretty  near  the  mark.  Anyway,  I  got  a  berth  and  sailed 
before  the  mast  outbound  for  old  Tai-o-hae,  Nuka  Hiva. 
I  had  been  to  the  Marquesas  many  times,  but  in  the  next 
chapter  I  shall  tell  a  few  incidents  that  I  have  not  recorded 
before. 


CHAPTER  XIII.  AN  OLD  MARQUESAN  QUEEN 

In  Tai-o-hae — I  come  across  a  Widowed  Marquesan 
Queen — Am  received  with  Dignity — The  Artistic  Tattoo 
on  Loi  Vakamoa's  Royal  Person — The  Queen  tells  how 
she  was  married  to  a  certain  Martin  Smith  of  New  South 
Wales — An  aged  Queen's  Vanity — A  Heathen  Necropolis. 

The  seas  I've  roamed,  hypocrisy  I  hate: 

God  grafted  in  my  soul  the  fire  of  song. 

On  life's  dark  hills  I've  wrestled,  fought  with  Fate. 

Here  in  South  Seas,  still  young,  I  jog  along, 

'Neath  strange  stars  dream  as  low  the  banyan  bends 

O'er    heathens   singing   by   their    huts — my    friends! 

We  call  them  heathens,  well,  'tis  habit  most. 

King  Mafeleto  is  my  royal  friend: 

His  ancestors,  'tis  true,  did  eat  on  toast 

Their  mortal  enemies,  but  Heaven  defend 

That  I  should  judge  men  by  their  long-past  crimes — 

We  White  Men,  too,  have  had  some  fine  old  times. 

They're  chanting  pagan  songs  by  their  hut-fires; 
At  each  full  breast  clings  one  sweet  tiny  mouth, 
Their  busy  babes,  unsatisfied  desires, 
Eyes  sparkling  starlight  of  the  sea-nursed  South ! 
As  down  the  forest  track  from  hut  to  hut 
Pass  natives,  clad  in  half  a  coco-nut! 

I  RECALL  the  memory  of  a  Marquesan  royal  person 
who  stands  out  in  my  recollection  with  unusual  vivid- 
ness. 

Whilst  wandering,  during  one  of  my  troubadouring 
expeditions  north-west  of  Tai-o-hae,  I  came  across  a 
small,  semi-pagan,  tribal  citadel  of  huts  on  the  lower 
mountain  slopes.  It  was  a  romantic  and  picturesque 

254 


AN  OLD  MARQUESAN  QUEEN     255 

scene.  The  scattered  bird-cage  huts,  made  of  twisted 
bamboo  and  nestling  in  the  hollows,  that  were  shaded 
by  feathery  palms,  intensified  the  enchantment  of  the 
secluded  forest  empire.  I  know  that  the  glad  reception 
which  I  received  from  the  whole  population  when  I 
entered  the  high  bamboo  stockade  gate,  my  two  native 
boys  ahead  of  me,  was  as  impressive  as  it  was  pleasing 
to  me.  The  two  boys  in  question  were  Palao  and  Sango, 
neither  of  them  more  than  ten  years  of  age.  But  they 
were  invaluable  guides,  considering  the  benefit  their  pro- 
tection afforded  my  unarmed  person,  for  they  were  able 
to  converse  in  the  difficult  Marquesan  tongue,  and  could 
explain  my  wishes  and  friendly  attributes. 

I  was  always  careful  in  those  days,  and  contrived 
that  Palao  and  Sango  should  move  ahead  of  me  as  my 
advance  guard,  thus  leaving  me  in  the  immediate  rear, 
ready  for  flight.  The  tribes  about  that  part  were  sup- 
posed to  be  friendly,  but  my  nerves  were  a  bit  unsettled 
through  hearing  that  two  sailors  had  been  murdered  in 
a  tribal  village  ten  miles  to  the  eastward.  Indeed,  more 
than  once  I  had  been  welcomed  by  the  sudden  appearance 
of  fierce  warriors  with  raised  war-clubs  and  other  strange 
implements  of  combat,  which  gave  due  notice  that  in- 
truders were  not  to  call  at  that  particular  moment! 
Possibly  a  tribal  battle  had  been  on,  and  had  ended  in 
the  demise  of  a  young  warrior  or  so,  and  consequently 
a  happy  cannibal  festival  was  in  progress.  Hence,  no 
admission  to  the  tribal  stronghold  for  white  men  unless 
they  happened  to  call  on  the  most  secretive  and  intimate 
terms. 

Seeing  only  the  smiling  faces  of  chiefesses  and  chiefs 
welcoming  me  from  the  ambush  of  multi-coloured  flowers 
by  the  lagoon  mangroves,  I  saw  that  I  had  arrived  at 
an  opportune  moment.  "  Aloah !  Alii,  Papalagi !  "  came 
from  the  lips  of  the  assembled  natives  as  I  placed  my 


256  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

violin  to  my  chin  and  commenced  to  perform  an  old 
Marquesan  hiwtine. 

The  effect  was  magical :  out  of  the  leafy  shadows 
and  the  hut  doorways  rushed  the  whole  population,  so 
it  seemed  to  me,  their  faces  bright  with  delight.  It  was 
a  sight  worth  travelling  many  miles  to  see :  tawny,  oval, 
elongated,  scarred,  serious,  and  handsome  faces,  with 
original-looking  eyes  of  varied  brilliance,  stared  at  me. 
A  few  tattooed  warriors,  clad  in  lava-lava  and  palm-leaf 
head-gear,  leaned  against  the  coco-palm  stems  regard- 
ing me  with  fixed,  cynical-looking  eyes.  I  did  not  like 
the  look  of  them  at  all,  but  they  turned  out  to  be  harm- 
less enough.  They  were  simply  the  old  conservatives 
of  heathen  times,  who  instinctively  resented  the  intrusion 
of  white  men  into  their  sylvan  demesne.  Flocks  of  pretty 
boys  and  girls,  of  a  pale  walnut-polished  hue,  clambered 
at  the  picturesque  ramias  (native  skirts)  of  their  deep- 
bosomed  mothers,  gazing  with  half-frightened  stare  as 
my  violin  bow  swept  forth  the  wailing  strains.  I  must 
have  looked  like  some  Pied  Piper  as  I  marched  across 
the  wide  rara  (village  green),  with  Palao  and  Sango 
singing  lustily,  one  on  each  side  of  me.  That  pagan 
mountain  village  was  part  of  a  true  wonderland  of  the 
wine-dark  seas.  I  am  unable  to  describe  the  bright-eyed 
glances  of  those  pretty  Nausicaas  and  Circes  who  crept 
from  the  Elysium-like  shadows  of  heathenland  and  stared 
at  me  as  I  passed  by.  Two  stalwart  chiefs,  who  were 
nibbling  my  present  of  tobacco  plug,  led  the  way;  they 
were  taking  me  straight  to  the  palace  building  wherein 
dwelt  their  tribal  queen.  This  palatial  stronghold  was 
constructed  of  coral  stone  and  was  surrounded  by  a  wide 
verandah  that  was  again  sheltered  by  the  beautiful 
pauroa  and  tamunu  trees.  Entering  the  palace,  I  found 
myself  in  a  low-roofed  apartment.  On  the  walls  hung 
the  polished  skulls  of  fallen  warriors  who  had  been 


AN  OLD  MARQUESAN  QUEEN     257 

renowned  for  bravery  in  their  day.  Magnificently  woven 
tappa-mats  covered  the  polished  floors  and  the  barbarian 
furniture.  I  noticed  two  cases  of  gin  and  one  empty 
rum  barrel  standing  right  in  the  centre  of  the  apartment. 
They  were  given  that  conspicuous  position,  I  believe,  be- 
cause rum  and  gin  denoted  all  that  was  immense  wealth 
in  the  eyes  of  the  Marquesan  race.  But  what  struck 
me  as  the  most  interesting  piece  of  barbarian  antiquity 
was  the  strange  woman  who  presided  over  that  palatial 
residence.  She  looked  as  old  as  her  palm-clad  native 
hills,  and  I  discovered  that  she  was  one  of  the  surviving 
queens  of  the  many  who  had  once  reigned  over  the  small 
dynasties  of  the  Marquesan  group.  I  had  never  seen  her 
like  before;  her  physiognomy  was  unique  and  decidedly 
pleasing-looking.  She  might  easily  have  been  some  happy 
personification  of  Death  itself  as  she  sat  there  and 
saluted  me  : 

"Aloah!  Papalagi,  you  wanter  see  me  am?" 
"  Oui !  Aloah  Majesty  Imperialess,"  I  responded,  as 
I  made  an  effort  and  bowed  the  knee  to  her.  I  had 
visited  Queen  Vaekehu,  who  still  reigned  supreme  in  her 
old  age  down  on  the  lower  slopes  by  Calaboose  Hill,  and 
so  I  knew  how  to  gain  the  appreciation  of  those  heathen 
ex-Queens.  Vaekehu  was  a  masterpiece  in  the  tattoo  line, 
but  I  can  assure  you  that  ex-Queen  Loi  Vakamoa, 
for  the  sheer  hieroglyphic-tattooed  beauty  that  adorned 
her  limbs  and  shoulders,  could  stand  unrivalled  through- 
out the  North  and  South  Pacific. 

After  addressing  me,  she  left  her  squatting-mat  just 
by  her  gin  barrel,  and  majestically  mounted  what  I  im- 
agine was  her  throne  (a  lot  of  old  sea-chests  and  gin- 
cases  covered  with  tappa-cloth).  I  did  my  level  best 
to  make  myself  pleasant,  played  the  violin,  drank  some 
bitter  stuff,  and  took  a  keen  interest  in  all  she  said. 
Sitting  up  there  on  her  old  box  throne,  her  profile  re- 


258  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

minded  me  of  those  old-fashioned  engravings  of  Queen 
Elizabeth  of  England.  The  sensual  curves,  once  so  pro- 
nounced, had  shrunk  with  her  lips ;  but  the  beak-like  nose 
— tattooed  with  tiny  semi-circles  from  the  bridge  down 
to  the  cheeks — gave  her  a  somewhat  melancholy  aspect. 
The  only  perceptible  determinedness  of  the  face  was  the 
sharp  outline  of  the  nose,  which  somehow  suggested  that 
its  owner  would  meet  the  accumulating  calamities  of  age 
with  commendable  aggressiveness.  Yet  her  demeanour 
was  affable  in  the  extreme.  Never  before  had  I  beheld  a 
face  that  so  sadly  expressed  the  aftermath  of  all  that 
had  been  and  at  the  same  time  told  of  a  bitter  for- 
lornness  through  senescence  of  frame  and  mind.  The 
devious  shruggings  of  her  shoulders,  the  pathetic  semi- 
amorous  glances,  and  the  many  hints  that  she  gave  whilst 
striving  to  convince  me  of  her  once  mighty  Oueenship 
and  physical  beauty,  were  positively  painful  to  my  mind. 
After  giving  me  a  goblet  of  whisky  and  lime-juice,  which 
I  must  admit  was  refreshing,  we  seemed  to  become  more 
confidential  with  each  other.  She  took  Palao  by  the 
arm  and  got  him  to  tell  her  where  he  had  met  me,  and 
much  that  I,  of  course,  could  not  make  out.  By  many 
direct  hints  she  let  me  know  that  she  had  enjoyed  a  vast 
plurality  of  husbands. 

"  I  been  wifer  to  many  kinks!  "  she  said. 

Most  of  what  she  said  was  translated  to  me  by  Palao 
as  I  politely  sipped  the  peculiar  beverage  that  she  herself 
handed  me.  I  hardly  knew  which  way  to  glance  as  she 
gabbled  on  and  Palao  translated  and  I  listened.  Sud- 
denly she  acquainted  me  with  the  fact  that  she  had  been 
wedded  more  than  twice  to  white  men  of  distinction! 
She  saw  the  look  of  surprise  on  my  face.  Perhaps  she 
thought  I  doubted  her,  for  she  lifted  the  lid  of  a  small 
sandal-wood  box  and  brought  forth  a  yellowish,  very 
faded  sheet  of  foolscap  paper. 


AN  OLD  MARQUESAN  QUEEN     259 

"  Savvy,  Papalagi  ?  "  she  almost  whimpered,  as  I  read 
on.    (And  her  eyes  were  shining  with  pride  all  the  while.) 
And  so  I  perused  the  following  marriage  lines  : 

"  This  dokerment  is  to  certify  that  Old  Man 
Martin  Smith  of  Woolloomooloo,  New  Sarth  Wales, 
has  from  the  dated  day  of  this  dokerment,  I4th 
Feb.  1 86 1,  become  the  lawful  husband  of  Queen 
Loi  Vakamoa  of  this  yere  Isles  and  several  more 
isles  to  the  sarthwards.  The  foresaid  Queen  agrees 
to  hand  over  all  her  monies  and  prufits  she  gits 
from  her  copra  plantations  and  howsomeever  monies 
she  gits  hold  on  whilst  the  aforesaid  John  Martin 
Smith  remains  King.  And  it  is  agreed  that  John 
Smith  can  have  a  safe  passage  in  the  old  ship's  boat, 
free  from  any  cursed  interference  by  the  late  de- 
throned King  Kai  Le  Tua  Vakamoa  and  his  b 

heathen  chiefs  at  any  such  time  as  he  wants  to  quit 
this  yere  Isles  and  his  dominions  and  go  back  to  his 
lawful  Missus,  Maltida  Sarah  Martin  Smith  of 
Kansas  City,  Merica. 

"  Signed  by  QUEEN 

( Signa  ture  ) . 

"  Old  Man  MARTIN  SMITH,  Bridegroom  and  King. 

"  Witness, — JONATHAN  BRIGGS,  late  Cook  of  S.S. 

4  Albatross,'  who  hereby  claims  25  per  cent,  on 

all  profits  accruing  from  the  aforesaid  wedding." 

So  ran  the  wording  of  all  that  may  be  published  here 
of  John  Smith's  marriage  lines.  My  accumulated  ex- 
periences of  such  hearties  as  John  Smith  and  Jonathan 
Briggs,  Esq.,  gave  me  an  idea  as  to  the  fine  old  times 
those  two  noble  papalagis  had  in  their  sojourn  on  those 
isles  to  the  southward  during  their  brief  kingship.  But 
no  hint  of  all  I  imagined  was  visible  on  my  countenance 


260  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

when  I  handed  the  tattered  document  back  to  the  smiling 
ex-queen.  At  this  moment  a  hideous,  aged  Chinaman 
poked  his  face  in  the  palace  doorway  and  surveyed  me 
with  surprised,  yellowish,  vicious  eyes.  I  wondered  who 
he  was,  what  relationship  existed  between  him  and  the 
Queen,  that  he  could  so  impertinently  thrust  his  ugly 
physiognomy  into  the  doorway  like  that.  The  next  mo- 
ment he  had  gone,  and  I  saw  him  no  more,  though  I 
heard  him  gabbling  as  he  drove  off  the  flocks  of  children 
who  persistently  crowded  by  the  palace  door,  waiting 
till  I  should  come  out  again.  And  still  the  Queen  spoke 
on.  Palao  patiently  translated  her  tales  of  departed 
lovers  for  my  inquisitive  ears.  Seeing  my  curiosity,  her 
eyes  gleamed  with  delight,  her  two  remaining  frontal 
teeth,  fitting  fork-like  into  the  gaps  between  the  two 
teeth  of  the  lower  jaw,  gave  a  sardonic  look  to  her  face 
as  she  sat  there.  She  wore  a  peculiar  garb  too:  the 
remnant  of  some  old  European  skirt  swathed  her  frame, 
but  was  cut  very  short,  ending  just  above  the  knees. 
On  her  head  was  an  old  hat  that  had  once  been  a  fash- 
ionable Parisian  bonnet.  Possibly  this  hat  had  been 
presented  to  her  by  one  of  the  French  officials. 

As  I  boldly  surveyed  her  limbs  she  drew  one  tawny 
ringer  along  the  faded  blue  curves  and  stripes  of  tattoo. 
From  all  that  she  vigorously  hinted,  those  tattoo  marks 
were  historic  representations  that  denoted  the  insignia 
and  coats-of-arms  of  the  tribes  wherein  she  had  married. 
"What  may  that  mean,  Palao?"  I  said,  as  I  glanced 
curiously  at  her  anatomy,  and  observed  impressionistic 
figures  of  muscular  men,  some  standing  in  a  gladiatorial 
attitude,  spear  in  hand  and  face  uplifted.  And  then, 
listening  carefully  to  all  that  Palao  had  to  say,  I  made 
out  that  they  were  a  few  of  the  ex-queen's  old  lovers — 
men  who  had  won  her  love  in  years  gone  by  and  died 
in  some  great  tribal  battle  that  had  been  led  by  some 


AN  OLD  MARQUESAN  QUEEN     261 

mighty  chief  who  also  yearned  for  her  impassioned  em- 
brace !  As  my  faithful  Palao  and  Sango  translated  these 
thing's  to  me  (and  more  than  once  cast  their  eyes  in 
shame  to  the  palace  floor),  it  seemed  like  a  dream  that 
I  should  be  standing  in  that  coral-built  place  listening 
to  the  memories  that  remained  in  that  old  woman's  brain. 
A  great  deal  that  she  said  sounded  to  my  ears  "  not 
quite  the  thing."  But  I  am  not  one  who  is  too  squeam- 
ish or  critical  over  the  moral  codes  that  exist  outside 
the  dominions  of  my  own  land.  As  she  gazed  up  into 
my  face,  and  her  aged  lips  quivered  in  the  emotion  she 
felt  over  her  wild  reminiscences,  I  took  the  extended, 
shrivelled  hand,  and,  with  some  emotional  idea  of  all 
that  she  once  had  been,  gallantly  kissed  it!  After  that, 
her  conversation  suddenly  changed  to  a  subtle  delivery 
of  phrases  in  pigeon  English.  I  slowly  gathered  that 
she  was  telling  me  of  wondrous  presentations  she  had 
received  from  her  past  lovers,  and  how  they  had  each 
in  turn  recognized  the  great  honour  conferred  upon  them 
by  her  acceptance  of  their  manifold  gifts.  Before  I  had 
gathered  the  true  import  of  what  she  was  driving  at, 
she  was  beseeching  me  to  hand  over  my  violin  to  her. 
I  remained  obdurate.  What  on  earth  she  wanted  my 
instrument  for,  Heaven  knows.  Possibly  she  was  child- 
ish, and  so,  like  a  child,  would  have  it  as  a  toy. 

She  invited  me  to  go  out  into  the  palace  grounds.  She 
led  the  way.  Her  garden  was  cultivated.  Pineapples, 
tomatoes,  taro,  oranges,  yams,  and  many  tropical  fruits 
grew  in  abundance  around  me.  By  the  shade  of  the 
buttressed  banyans,  at  the  far  end  of  the  cleared  space, 
stood  a  huge  wooden  idol.  It  was  a  hideous  thing: 
one  large  tooth  protruded  from  its  wide,  slit,  crocodile- 
like  mouth,  where  in  and  out  crawled  fat  insects  with 
tortoise-shell-hued  wings  (I  think  they  were  big  ants). 
Though  the  Queen  wore  a  Catholic  medallion  on  her 


262  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

bosom,  and  had  told  me  that  "  She  belonger  Popey  God, 
and  was  all-e-samee  great  Cliston  womans,"  I  distinctly 
saw  her  aged  form  give  a  bow  of  heathenish  reverence 
as  we  both  stood  in  front  of  that  monstrous  heathen 
deity!  It  stood  nearly  seven  feet  high,  and  standing 
there  as  some  representation  of  infinity,  the  hopeless- 
ness of  creeds  and  all  the  ills  and  mockery  of  human 
existence,  it  was  a  magnificent  bit  of  perfection.  When 
we  returned  into  the  small  palace,  it  was  dusk. 
"  Salaba !  "  called  Vakamoa  in  a  wheezy  voice.  In  a 
moment  I  heard  the  shuffling  of  running  feet,  and  then  a 
beautiful  Marquesan  maid,  robed  in  tappa-cloth,  flowers, 
and  threaded  shells,  appeared  before  me.  She  gazed  on 
me  with  a  quizzical  lustrous  gleam  in  her  eyes.  This 
maid  interested  me  because  of  her  European-like  features. 
I  saw  her  place  her  fingers  into  the  folds  of  her  thick 
tresses  to  see  that  the  hibiscus  blossoms  were  still  taste- 
fully arranged,  in  much  the  same  way  as  a  vanity-stricken 
English  maid  might  do.  In  a  few  moments  this  serv- 
ing-maid, for  such  she  was,  lit  up  all  the  tiny  hanging 
coco-nut-oil  lamps  in  the  apartment,  then  she  went  away 
and  left  Vakamoa  and  myself  alone. 

Squatting  on  the  mats,  I  did  as  she  bade  me,  and  com- 
menced to  play  my  violin.  She  seemed  very  pleased 
with  the  English  melodies  that  I  performed,  and  once  or 
twice  mumbled  as  I  played. 

"You  liker  see  me  dance?"  she  said.  Then  she 
hummed  a  little  himine  and  asked  me  to  play  it.  Had 
I  not  seen  that  old  woman  career  round  that  low-roofed 
chamber  as  she  danced  some  old  barbarian  rhythm,  I 
would  never  have  believed  it  possible.  So  astonished 
was  I,  that  I  forgot  my  part  of  the  business  and  stopped 
playing.  "Alo!  Alo!"  (Go  on!  Go  on!)  she  said, 
almost  fiercely.  In  a  moment  I  placed  my  instrument 
to  my  chin,  and  once  more  fired  away.  The  hanging 


AN  OLD  MARQUESAN  QUEEN     263 

lamps  along  the  roof-beams  swayed  to  and  fro  as  her 
skirt  swished  violently,  and  her  stiff  legs  made  such 
movements  that  it  is  impossible  to  describe  them.  "If 
this  is  how  she  goes  on  in  the  dry  leaf  what  did  she  do 
in  the  green  ?  "  was  my  reflection,  as  her  bony  legs  went 
up  with  a  bound,  and  then  right  over  my  head!  I've 
no  wish  to  exaggerate  in  the  description  of  it  all;  only 
those  who  have  seen  the  fetish  frenzy  of  an  aged  bar- 
barian woman  under  the  influence  of  whisky  (for  so  I 
concluded  she  must  be)  will  know  what  I  saw  that 
night!  I  had  no  alternative  but  to  go  through  with  it. 
As  she  leapt  over  me  her  toes  caught  in  my  hair  and 
withdrew  some  by  the  roots!  But  I  did  not  budge  an 
inch;  I  simply  played  for  dear  life,  as  it  were.  I  knew 
that  she  was  a  heathen,  that  she  was  old  and  childish 
and  not  responsible  for  her  actions.  I  also  recalled  many 
things  that  O  Le  Langi  had  told  me  about  heathen 
women's  mad  ways  when  they  grow  old  and  realize  the 
loss  of  their  beauty.  "  She  can't  go  on  much  longer," 
I  thought,  as  she  bounded  round  the  room,  lifting  her 
scraggy  arms  and  chanting  in  a  weird  manner.  True 
enough,  she  slowed  down  after  the  fiftieth  round,  and 
then  sat  panting  beside  me.  After  that  exhibition,  I 
did  my  best  to  keep  on  the  right  side  of  her.  I  handed 
her  a  piece  of  tobacco  plug  that  I,  fortunately,  had  in 
my  pocket.  And,  though  it  was  my  last  piece  of  tobacco, 
I  felt  well  repaid  for  its  loss  by  the  evident  pleasure 
the  gift  gave  her.  She  immediately  twisted  a  lump  off 
and  placed  it  in  her  large  corn-cob  pipe,  then  struck  a 
match  on  the  boniest  portion  of  her  anatomy,  and  started 
to  puff  vigorously  at  my  gift. 

After  that  I  withdrew  as  hastily  as  possible  from  her 
chamber.  Palao  and  Sango  re-entered  and  prostrated 
themselves  at  her  feet.  This  pleased  her  immensely. 
Going  down  the  mossy  pathway  that  led  to  the  stockade 


264  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

gate,  I  turned  my  head  and  waved  two  or  three  farewell 
salutations.  The  last  I  saw  of  her  was  as  she  stood 
by  her  door,  her  forked  teeth  close  together  as  she 
grinned  with  pleasure  at  thinking  I  should  return  on  the 
morrow!  But  I  did  not  return  again.  And  I  may  say 
here,  that  I  have  always  felt  more  at  ease  in  the  presence 
of  old  native  men  than  in  the  presence  of  native  women, 
be  they  waiting-women  or  ex-queens. 

Before  I  left  the  immediate  precincts  of  that  bungalow, 
which  Vakamoa  styled  her  "palace,"  I  strolled  into  the 
tiny  coral- fenced  clearing  by  the  plateau  of  the  mountain 
slopes.  It  was  the  lonely  place  where  the  tribe  buried 
their  dead.  I  gazed  for  a  little  time  on  the  strange 
tomb-stones,  and  tried  to  make  out  the  inscriptions  that 
apparently  commemorated  the  past  virtues  of  kings  and 
chiefs  who  had  passed  into  shadowland.  Notwithstand- 
ing the  feathery  palms  and  the  glimpse  of  the  far-away, 
moonlit,  tumbling  seas,  it  was  a  forlorn  place.  And 
now,  doubtlessly,  that  discarded  Queen  Vakamoa  has  long 
since  dissolved,  with  all  her  pride  of  past  queenship,  into 
a  little  dust,  and  a  lump  of  memorial  coral  tells  where 
she  lies  in  that  tiny,  barbarian  necropolis. 

Next  day  I  accepted  the  invitation  of  Palao  to  stop 
in  his  father's  bungalow  near  the  shore.  I  had  had 
enough  adventure  for  the  time  being,  and  so  was  ex- 
tremely pleased  to  romp  with  the  native  children  and 
listen  to  their  wonderful  fairy  tales.  For  be  it  noted  that 
those  children  had  their  Hans  Andersens  and  Grimms, 
just  as  we  have.  I'll  tell  one  of  the  stories  in  the  next 
chapter. 


CHAPTER  XIV.     TISSEMAO  AND  THE  CUTTLE- 
FISH 

Impressionistic  Scene  in  Nuka  Hiva — Tissemao  listens  to 
the  Luring  Voice  of  a  Cuttle-fish — The  Love-Stricken 
Cuttle-fish — When  Crabs  are  Brave. 

THE  pagan  city  of  Nuka  Hiva  was  silent.  The  tired 
sentinel  stars  were  creeping  homeward.  Dawn  had 
already  arisen  from  her  silvery  couch,  her  soft  robe, 
cut  out  of  the  warm  western  winds,  wrapped  around  her, 
her  sandals  dipped  in  light  as  she  stood  on  the  skyline, 
a  few  stars  still  plucking  her  dusky  hair.  Then  that 
wonderful  enchantress,  who  awakens  the  ages,  stepped 
tiptoe  across  the  horizon's  shadow  hills,  the  echoes  of 
her  footfalls  winging  the  silence  of  the  tropic  seas. 
Those  echoes,  colliding  with  the  granite  hills  of  South 
Sea  fairy-land,  rustled  the  magical  shadows  of  the  sylvan 
hollows,  then,  touching  the  winged  nymphs  and  petals 
of  the  flamboyants  and  ndrala  blossoms,  sped  onward 
into  the  deeper  glooms  of  the  forests.  An  aged  cockatoo 
who  had  spent  its  best  years  as  a  vassal  of  the  god 
Atua  Mao,  looked  sidelong  at  the  golden  gleams  of  the 
eastern  sky  and  called  out  hoarsely : 

"Talofa!  Aloah!  Awake,  O  birds  of  the  forest! 
Morn  is  here !  Arise !  " 

Now,  all  this  happened  in  full  view  of  a  little  heathen 
village  by  a  mossy  slope  near  Tai-o-hae.  And  who  was 
it  could  see  so  strange  a  fairy-land  in  the  birth  of  a  new 
day  breaking  across  the  ranges?  It  was  Tissemao,  the 
Marquesan  maid! 

Tissemao  was  up  very  early  that  morning.     She  had 

265 


266  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

been  with  her  little  brother  Noko-noko,  fishing  for  reatos 
in  the  blue  lagoon  by  the  bay.  And  Noko,  burdened 
with  fishy  wealth,  had  hurried  back  home  to  his  village 
hut  that  stood  in  the  shadows  of  the  mountains  of 
Atnana,  leaving  his  sister  alone.  As  Tissemao  dangled 
her  feet  in  the  cool  waters  of  the  ocean  the  golden  light 
was  stealing  from  the  eyes  of  sunrise;  it  touched  the 
surface  of  the  big  moani  all  (ocean)  that  shone  like  a 
mighty  mirror  that  stretched  to  the  horizon.  Suddenly 
Tissemao  felt  something  pull  at  her  toes  which  were 
dangling  in  the  sea.  Looking  down  to  see  what  it  could 
be,  she  gave  a  cry  of  surprise.  And  no  wonder; 
for  a  Cuttle-fish  poked  its  head  out  of  the  sea,  and 
said: 

"  I'm  so  sorry  to  disturb  you,  Tissemao,  but  we've 
all  been  swimming  about  here  a  long  time,  for  we  can 
see  your  shadow  in  the  waters,  and  really  it  is  very 
beautiful." 

Tissemao  blushed  to  hear  such  praise.  Looking  down, 
she  saw  that  it  was  quite  correct,  for  there,  in  the  water, 
shone  her  image  as  clear  as  though  it  was  mirrored  in 
a  sheet  of  glass.  Clad  in  her  coloured  tappa  Jiolaku 
(short  chemise),  hibiscus  flowers  in  her  mass  of  dusky 
hair,  she  really  did  make  a  pretty  picture. 

The  Cuttle-fish,  putting  on  its  sweetest  smile,  said : 

"  Would  you  like  to  come  down  here  and  see  the 
wonders  of  the  great  world  under  the  sea?" 

For  a  long  time  Tissemao  hesitated,  then  she  said : 

"  Why,  Mr.  Cuttle-fish,  you  must  remember  I'm  not 
like  you ;  I  should  soon  die  for  the  want  of  breath  under 
the  sea." 

"  Oh  dear,  no ! "  said  the  artful  Cuttle-fish,  shaking 
its  head  slowly  at  the  idea  of  such  a  ridiculous  sug- 
gestion. 

But  very  soon,  hearing  that  there  were  so  many  strange 


TISSEMAO  AND  CUTTLE-FISH   267 

and  beautiful  things  under  the  sea,  Tissemao,  with  the 
Cuttle-fish's  kind  help,  slid  down  gently  into  the  deep 
water ! 

Directly  she  got  beneath  the  surface,  the  Cuttle-fish 
seized  her  tightly  by  the  arm,  and  said  fiercely: 

"  Come  on!  now  I've  got  you!  " 

Poor  Tissemao  was  frightened  out  of  her  life  as  she 
felt  the  clutch  of  the  Cuttle-fish  as  it  dragged  her  down, 
down.  It  seemed  such  a  long  time  ere  she  touched  the 
bottom  of  the  ocean.  Still  the  Cuttle-fish  clutched  her, 
and  breathed  heavily,  like  one  who  had  gained  a  rich 
prize  and  dreaded  to  lose  it.  Dragging  her  along  the 
ocean  floor,  he  came  to  a  cavern.  For  a  moment  the 
Cuttle-fish  looked  round,  then  took  her  in.  This  cavern 
was  lit  up  by  a  faint  glimmer  from  the  light  of  the  sun 
that  was  shining  up  over  the  sea.  As  Tissemao  looked 
round,  the  Cuttle-fish  said: 

"  I  am  all  that's  beautiful ;  if  you  expect  to  see  any- 
thing more  beautiful  than  a  cuttle-fish,  you  are  very, 
very  much  mistaken." 

Saying  this,  it  lifted  its  ugly  face  and  tried  to  assume 
a  fascinating  smile. 

But  it  was  no  good.  Tissemao  would  have  none  of 
it,  but  simply  said : 

"  Let  me  get  away ;  let  me  go  up  into  my  village  again, 
will  you?  " 

The  old  Cuttle-fish  got  into  an  awful  rage  at  hearing 
Tissemao  plead  so,  for  he  had  fallen  deeply  in  love 
with  her. 

Now  it  so  happened,  and  by  the  merest  chance  too, 
that  the  Cuttle-fish  was  terrifying  Tissemao,  trying  to 
frighten  her  into  subjection,  when  a  very  old  Crab  hap- 
pened to  be  walking  by  the  Cuttle-fish's  cavern  door. 
The  Crab  distinctly  caught  sight  of  Tissemao  looking  up 
with  terror-stricken  eyes  at  the  Cuttle-fish. 


268  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

"Ho  ho!"  he  muttered  to  himself;  "so  he's  at  it 
again,  is  he !  " 

Now,  this  old  Crab  was  good-hearted,  one  of  the 
respectable  kind.  And,  knowing  the  reputation  the 
Cuttle-fish  had  as  a  roue  of  the  worst  type,  he  at  once 
determined  to  thwart  the  Cuttle-fish  in  his  endeavours  to 
attempt  to  hurt  so  sweet  a  maid  as  Tissemao.  So  he 
gently  looked  round  the  corner  of  the  cavern  door,  and 
said: 

"  Good  afternoon." 

In  a  moment  the  vicious  Cuttle-fish  rushed  to  the  door, 
so  that  its  bulk  could  artfully  hide  Tissemao  from  the 
intruder's  eyes. 

The  old  Crab,  seeing  through  the  ruse  and  not  wishing 
to  let  the  Cuttle-fish  know  that  it  had  seen  Tissemao, 
artfully  put  its  claw  to  its  mouth,  then,  yawning,  said: 
• "  Oh  dear,  my  eyes  are  so  bad  lately,  really  I  can't 
see  anything  at  all."  Then  it  looked  straight  into  the 
Cuttle-fish's  eyes,  and  continued :  "  I  suppose  you  feel 
very  lonely  here  in  this  cave  of  yours?  " 

The  Cuttle-fish,  like  all  things  of  a  wicked  type,  had 
no  brains  at  all,  and  so  was  completely  taken  in.  And 
the  Crab,  chuckling  to  itself,  went  safely  on  its  way  as 
quickly  as  possible  round  the  corner,  to  consider  what 
was  best  to  do  to  extricate  Tissemao  from  her  awful 
position. 

In  a  moment  it  had  made  its  mind  up.  Going  up  to 
a  large  cavern  that  stood  in  its  own  grounds  to  the 
south-west  of  the  mighty  forests  of  sea-weeds,  it  lifted 
its  claws  and  gently  knocked  at  the  door.  In  a  moment 
it  opened,  and  a  great  Sword-fish  thrust  its  tremendous 
spiked  nose  out,  and  said : 

"  Hallo!  What's  up  now?  I  was  just  having  a  nap; 
you  are  the  second  person  who  has  knocked  at  my  door 
this  afternoon  and  disturbed  me." 


TISSEMAO  AND  CUTTLE-FISH  269 

The  old  Crab  bowed,  and  apologized  profusely  as  it 
saw  the  Sword-fish's  angry  face.  Then  the  Crab  said: 

"  I  have  come  to  you,  knowing  well  that  you  are  a 
friend  of  the  helpless  and  are  fair-dealing  in  all  your 
mighty  battles  with  that  weapon,  that  sword  which  is 
fixed  on  your  face." 

"Well,  make  haste.  What  is  it?"  said  the  Sword- 
fish,  who,  being  powerful,  was  used  to  soft,  flattering 
speeches  from  old  crabs  and  other  helpless  things  that 
were  at  his  mercy  under  the  deep  sea. 

Then  the  old  Crab  at  once  told  the  Sword-fish  all  that 
he  had  seen  while  he  had  been  passing  the  door  of  the 
Cuttle-fish's  cave.  The  Sword-fish,  who  was  fond  of 
Cuttle-fish  as  a  breakfast-dish,  became  most  indignant 
as  he  listened  to  the  Crab's  comments  on  the  morals  of 
the  Cuttle-fish.  Then,  without  further  parley,  they  both 
sallied  forth  to  rescue  Tissemao.  Arriving  outside  the 
cavern,  the  Crab  gently  knocked  at  the  Cuttle-fish's 
door,  as  prearranged,  and  said: 

"  Good  evening,  Mr.  Cuttle-fish ;  I've  called  to  see  you 
because  you  are  so  lonely." 

The  Cuttle-fish,  who  was  persuading  Tissemao  to  give 
him  just  one  kiss,  rushed  to  the  door,  and  said: 

"Clear  out  of  this;  I'm  busy." 

At  this,  the  old  Crab  swelled  its  breast  out  with  bravery 
through  its  knowledge  that  the  Sword-fish  was  stealthily 
waiting  round  the  corner,  and  said : 

"  Don't  you  talk  like  that  to  me,  you  ungrateful  wretch, 
when  I've  come  all  this  way  to  pay  you  a  friendly  visit." 
Then,  losing  its  temper,  the  Crab  gave  a  knowing  wink, 
and  said :  "  I  know  all  about  you ;  you  are  at  your  old 
tricks  again — whose  poor  wife  have  you  got  in  your  house 
now,  I  wonder?  " 

With  its  eyes  ablaze  with  rage  at  hearing  such  a  sug- 
gestion from  a  cowardly  old  crab,  and  in  its  knowledge 


270  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

that  truth  was  spoken,  the  Cuttle-fish  gave  a  running 
dash,  and  knocked  the  Crab  over.  This  act  was  just 
what  the  Sword-fish  was  waiting  for,  for  as  the  Cuttle- 
fish rushed  out  of  the  cave  so  as  to  reach  the  Crab,  he, 
too,  gave  a  dash  forward  and  so  impaled  the  Cuttle-fish 
on  his  mighty  sword!  In  a  moment  the  Crab  had  re- 
covered its  feet,  delighted  at  the  success  of  its  ruse.  For 
Tissemao  kissed  its  ugly  face  as  it  embraced  her,  and 
told  of  all  it  had  done  on  her  behalf.  It  was  then  that 
the  Crab  said: 

"  Come  on !    Come  on !  " 

Then  it  escorted  her  along  the  wide  floor  of  the  deep 
ocean  till  she  reached  the  shore.  Then  it  said,  "  Never 
listen  to  the  flattery  of  cuttle-fishes  again,  for  you  see 
that,  but  for  an  ugly  old  sword-fish  and  a  brave  person 
like  me,  you  might  have  got  out  of  your  depth  for  ever. 
Now  then,  go  away,  silly  girl !  " 

On  hearing  the  Crab's  advice,  Tissemao  at  once  stepped 
out  of  the  ocean  water,  and  saw  the  beautiful  sun,  and 
thereupon  made  up  her  mind  to  be  satisfied  with  the 
world  she  knew.  In  a  moment  she  had  rushed  off  into 
the  forest,  and  back  again  to  her  native  village.  Her 
mother  was  delighted  to  see  her  again.  They  had  all 
thought  she  was  drowned,  or  dead  somewhere  in  the 
forest,  for  though  she  knew  it  not,  she  had  been  away 
for  three  days!  And,  to  this  day,  the  people  of  those 
isles  to  the  north-west  always  feel  kindly  toward  old 
crabs,  and  look  upon  the  big  sword-fish  as  a  valiant 
warrior. 

Such  was  the  simple  heathen  fairy  story  which  was 
told  to  me  by  my  little  comrade  the  Marquesan  youth, 
Palao,  who,  as  the  reader  will  recall,  was  a  member  of 
my  retinue  when  I  paid  a  visit  to  the  aged,  discarded 
Queen  Vakamoa,  she  who  had  once  been  the  unlawfully- 


TISSEMAO  AND  CUTTLE-FISH  271 

wedded  wife  of  Old  Martin  Smith  of  New  South  Wales. 

A  few  days  after  leaving  the  village  where  my  little 
friend  Palao  lived,  I  secured  lodgings  at  the  primitive 
inn  near  Tai-o-hae  beach.  I  recall  that  I  stayed  at  that 
rum-stricken  hostel  for  only  a  few  days.  The  fact  is, 
that  an  extraordinary  old  madman  dwelt  in  the  room 
next  to  mine.  Just  as  I  laid  my  weary  head  down  and 
thanked  Providence  in  my  blessed  anticipation  of  a  well- 
earned  month's  rest,  the  old  man  went  raving  mad.  Why 
Ranjo,  my  host,  put  up  with  him  was  a  complete  mys- 
tery. Up  and  down  the  room  he  would  tramp,  never 
ceasing,  till  he  had  wakened  me  for  the  night,  as  he  called 
out  in  a  most  solemn  voice : 

"  Suffered  under  Pontius  Pilate.  O  the  quick  and  the 
dead !  the  quick  and  the  dead !  " 

So  would  he  rave  on  for  hours  till,  exhausted,  he  fell 
asleep.  And  then  he  would  snore,  and  puff  the  lips  of 
his  toothless  mouth  about  in  such  a  terrific  manner  that 
I  dreamed  that  I  was  dead  and  sleeping  in  a  deep-sea 
cave  where  the  waves  rushed  in  and  violently  lifted  my 
shell-burred  bones  eternally.  On  the  third  night  I  was 
relieved  of  his  presence,  for  he  rose  after  midnight,  went 
outside,  and  knelt  before  a  tallow  candle  which  he  lit  and 
placed  beneath  the  palm  grove.  He  would  kneel  before 
this  humble  tallow  altar  for  about  two  hours,  chanting 
in  a"  sombre  voice  the  Lord's  Prayer,  interspersed  with 
ghastly  epitaphs  that  made  my  blood  curdle  as  I  groaned 
on  my  trestle  bed. 

I  was  thankful  when  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  a 
young  German.  I  cannot  wax  enthusiastic  over  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Teutonic  race,  but  still,  I  must  admit,  that 
my  German  friend  was  as  clean-minded  a  comrade  as  one 
could  hope  to  meet  in  the  South  Seas  in  those  days. 
Indeed,  he  and  I  secured  a  berth  as  stowaways  on  a  full- 
rigged  windjammer,  and  so  left  Nuka  Hiva,  incognito, 


272  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

outbound  for  the  glorious  Nowhere  of  sanguine  youth. 
I  see  by  my  diary  that  I  eventually  arrived  in  New 
Guinea,  where  I  stayed  six  months  with  a  celebrated  high 
chief  and  his  family.  Though  my  native  host  was  an 
inveterate  cannibal  in  battle  times,  he  and  his  family  were 
exceedingly  kind  to  me  while  I  was  down  with  malaria. 
After  that  I  shipped  on  a  German  vessel  for  the  Solomon 
Isles,  where  I  arrived  off  Bougainville  in  a  typhoon.  Our 
ship  was  wrecked  off  the  coast,  and  we  lost  four  hands. 
I  had  only  my  shirt  and  boots  on  when  a  huge  comber 
swept  me  from  the  deck  into  the  ocean,  where  I  seemed 
to  make  about  four  somersaults  between  the  sea  and  the 
night  sky,  ere  I  was  landed  high  up  on  the  sandy  beach. 
Next  day  I  recovered  my  violin  from  the  wreck  that  lay 
high  and  dry  on  the  barrier  reefs.  Unfortunately,  I  have 
no  space  to  narrate  all  that  I  experienced  when  I  became 
the  staunch  friend  of  the  Solomon  Island  head-hunters  !— 
played  the  violin  to  the  great  Ingrova,  to  Oom  Pa,  and 
gave  violin  lessons  to  high  chief  Stem-Poo's  half-caste 
daughter,  Mallio-Wao,  up  in  the  mountain  stronghold 
at  Zalabar.  I  will  simply  say,  that,  under  the  friendly 
cover  of  one  dark  night,  I  hurriedly  left  Ysabel  for  New 
Guinea,  and  after  many  wanderings  once  more  came 
across  my  Irish  comrade,  O'Hara.  And  in  the  next 
chapters  I  will  attempt  to  relate  those  things  which  I 
count  as  the  most  thrilling  experiences  of  wild  South 
Sea  life  which  I  was  ever  thrown  into  by  the  mystery  of 
circumstance. 


CHAPTER    XV.     CHARITY    ORGANIZATION    OF 
THE  SOUTH  SEAS 

I   fall   from   Space — Court  Violinist — Arrive   in  Fiji— 
With  the  Great  Missing. 

I  wonder  why  men  o'er  the  buried  weep, 
When  'tis  the  wandering  dead  who  cannot  sleep? 

1WAS  hanging  by  one  foot  from  a  mystical  cloud, 
lesiurely  travelling  across  the  tropic  sky,  then  I 
lost  my  grip  and  fell!  I  distinctly  recall  the  awful  sen- 
sation of  that  noiseless  dive  through  space,  ere  I  arrived 
with  a  crash !  I  had  apparently  fallen  through  the  roof 
of  a  grog-shanty  on  a  Pacific  Isle.  Many  may  doubt 
the  aforesaid  assertion  of  mine,  and  say  that  such  a 
mishap  was  a  physical  impossibility.  But  I  would  say 
that  it  is  only  the  impossible  that  does  occur.  I  felt  the 
spasm  of  that  sudden  headlong  contact  of  my  skull 
against  some  hard  object  very  acutely.  Opening  my 
eyes  I  saw  astonished  traders  standing  around  me,  still 
holding  their  rum  mugs  between  the  bar  and  their  lips 
as  they  stared,  open-mouthed,  down  on  my  recumbent 
form.  I  looked  through  the  doorway  and  saw  feathery 
palms,  and  moonlit  seas  softly  beating  over  the  coral 
reefs  of  a  strange  shore. 

"  It  looks  as  though  I've  fallen  on  another  world," 
thought  I.  But  no  such  luck  for  me!  The  fact  of  the 
case  is  this.  Our  ship,  from  Honolulu,  had  arrived  off 
the  Fiji  Islands  that  evening.  I  was  with  O'Hara,  whom 
I  had  re-met  in  Hawaii.  And,  in  my  hurry  to  get  ashore, 
I  had  hired  a  canoe,  and  whilst  I  was  being  paddled 
ashore,  the  canoe  had  turned  turtle!  It  appeared  that 

273 


274  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

I  had  sunk  twice  beneath  the  water  before  O'Hara  and 
the  native  boatmen  rescued  me.  They  thought  I  was 
done  for  when  they  dragged  me  up  the  shore  and  carried 
me  into  the  grog-shanty. 

The  native  bar-keeper  had  gone  off  immediately  to 
fetch  a  well-known  Fijian  medicine-man  who  dwelt  in 
Tumba-Tumba  village.  What  on  earth  the  medicine- 
man did  before  he  succeeded  in  restoring  my  heart-beats, 
I  don't  know.  O'Hara  swore  that  he  delivered  mighty 
blows  on  my  hips  with  a  flat  war-club,  lifted  me  repeatedly 
up  to  the  shanty's  roof  by  one  leg  and  let  me  drop 
with  a  crash!  The  native  doctor  was  evidently  cruel 
to  be  kind,  for  his  strange  acts  saved  my  life,  and 
were  the  direct  cause  of  the  strange  sensations  and  my 
experience  as  above  recorded. 

As  the  reader  knows,  O'Hara  was  an  old  pal  of  mine, 
and,  being  an  Irishman,  was  impulsive  and  entertaining. 
When  I  was  down  in  the  mouth  he  proved  a  medicine- 
man of  the  spirits,  for  he  made  me  laugh  insanely  when 
I  was  sane,  and  dosed  me  with  romantic  Irish  songs  and 
rum  when  credit  was  scarce.  As  I  have  stated,  it  was 
after  leaving  New  Guinea  that  I  had  the  good  fortune 
to  come  across  my  old  comrade  again  in  Honolulu. 
Though  I  had  a  good  musical  engagement,  and  was  get- 
ting on  in  the  world,  so  far  as  the  world's  opinion  goes, 
I  let  everything  go  to  the  winds  through  not  keeping  a 
square  chin  when  O'Hara  asked  me  to  go  a-roving  with 
him.  As  usual,  he  nearly  succeeded  in  getting  us  both 
hanged  when  we  arrived  at  Apamama  and  I  became  Court 
violinist  to  King  Tembinok.  It  is  one  thing  to  be  loyal 
to  a  chum  in  adversity,  but  to  be  expected  to  do  the 
things  that  O'Hara  wished  me  to  do  when  Tembinok's 
tawny  wife  fell  in  love  with  him  was  quite  another  mat- 
ter. I  remembered  the  Fae  Fae  excursion  and  our  flight 
from  Tahiti. 


CHARITY  ORGANIZATION        275 

"No,  thank  you!"  I  said,  when  he  had  the  cheek  to 
come  and  ask  me 

But,  there,  it's  not  my  wish  to  deal  with  that  business 
here.  I  am  out  to  tell  of  quite  a  different  adventure 
that  befell  us  after  we  arrived  in  Fiji.  Financially  speak- 
ing, I  had  done  very  well  in  Honolulu.  I  had  secured 
a  good  engagement  as  violinist  to  King  Laukauhammer, 
as  well  as  my  salary  as  conductor  of  the  royal  bodyguard 
band.  In  all  I  managed  to  save  a  thousand  dollars. 
Though  I  am  not  a  man  who  can  see  anything  in  this 
world  to  get  a  swelled  head  about,  my  vanity  was  con- 
siderable when  the  King  presented  me  with  the  Court 
shield  of  the  Kalakaua  dynasty — an  equivalent  to  the 
Cross  of  the  Chevalier  of  Honour — thus  making  my 
seventh  South  Sea  knighthood  in  less  than  twelve  months, 
not  counting,  mind  you,  the  proffered  kingship  at 
Temelako,  New  Guinea,  where,  on  playing  my  violin 
under  a  palm  tree,  outside  a  heathen  seraglio,  I  was 
embraced  by  a  widowed  queen  and  compelled  to  enter 
the  tribal  palace  palavana  by  royal  command.  Also  I 
had,  to  the  King's  delight,  composed  special  marches, 
and  scored  them  for  the  strange,  primitive  instrumenta- 
tion of  the  King's  private  military  band.  For  a  while 
I  had  lived  sumptuously  at  the  best  hotel  in  Beratania 
Street.  Then  I  had  decided  to  start  off  in  search  of  any 
adventure  that  was  opposed  to  the  orthodox  route  as 
mapped  out  in  the  twelve  commandments  of  civilized  life. 

I  recall  that  O'Hara  and  I  sailed  as  first-class  passen- 
gers on  the  S.S.  "  Alameda,"  which  was  bound  for 
N.S.W.,  via  Suva,  Fiji.  The  voyage  was  momentous 
for  its  monotony,  not  one  storm  or  passionate  incident. 
O'Hara  and  I  cursed  everything,  wished  the  sea  yellow, 
the  sun  blue,  and  that  the  crew  might  mutiny  and  pitch  the 
skipper  overboard  or  cast  us  adrift  on  endless  waters. 
Night  after  night  we  unbuttoned  our  clothes  and  thank- 


276  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

fully  "  turned  in  "  to  rehearse  a  death-like  existence  in 
our  small,  coffin-shaped  bunks.  After  arriving  in  Fiji 
and  those  things  happening  already  narrated,  we  put  up 
at  the  best  hotel  in  Suva,  scorning  Smith's  bar  and  the 
old  fan-tan  shanty  at  Buta.  For  a  while  we  enjoyed 
the  company  of  the  elite — well-to-do  traders,  ships'  mates 
and  derelict  skippers,  stranded  runaway  apprentices,  and 
strange  men  of  better  days  who  appeared  to  have  lost 
their  memory  and  their  reason  for  being  in  Fiji  at  all. 

It  was  while  we  were  stopping  at  this  hotel  that  O'Hara 
and  I  discovered  that  our  improvidence  necessitated  our 
looking  for  cheaper  diggings.  An  old  shellback,  seeing 
how  things  were  with  us,  took  us  into  his  confidence, 
recommended  us  to  a  good  lodging-house,  a  sort  of 
Sailors'  Home,  on  the  Rewa  river.  First,  one  must  know 
that  this  Sailors'  Home  was  primarily  the  "  Charity  Or- 
ganization of  the  Southern  Seas !  "  For,  beneath  its  kind 
roof,  sheltered  by  giant  breadfruit  trees,  men  hid  from 
the  Suva  police — men  who  were  mostly  fugitives  from 
across  the  world,  and  who  had  flown  from  the  cities 
in  haste  to  save  their  necks  or  their  liberty.  But  this  fact 
did  not  deter  O'Hara  and  myself  from  wishing  to  go 
there.  Personally,  I  have  always  thought  that  one  has 
a  perfect  right  to  save  one's  neck.  Man  has  only  one 
neck,  one  life,  and  not  always  one  chance  whilst  alive  of 
doing  better  for  himself. 

The  idea  that  there  was  really  a  lonely  wooden  estab- 
lishment hidden  in  the  deep  seclusion  of  a  certain  forest, 
where  hunted  men  found  refuge  from  the  law,  was  most 
fascinating  to  me,  and  this  fascination  was  the  main 
incentive  that  took  O'Hara  and  me  there. 

When  that  old  shellback  stood  on  the  Suva  parade, 
put  his  finger  secretively  up  to  the  side  of  his  corrugated 
nasal  organ,  and  gave  us  a  significant  wink  of  magnificent 
import  as  to  all  that  he  could  tell  about  that  Charity 


CHARITY  ORGANIZATION        277 

Organization,  O'Hara's  heart  seemed  to  fairly  burst  with 
glorious  anticipation.  His  curly  hair  seemed  to  bristle 
forth  the  possibilities  before  us;  his  face  flushed  till  his 
bright  blue  eyes  seemed  to  breathe  forth  the  poetry  of 
romance.  Nor  was  I  myself  far  behind  in  my  eagerness 
to  get  to  that  mysterious  residence  of  secretive  men  of 
past  crime.  Besides,  I  was  out  in  the  world  to  take  notes, 
and  was  determined  to  take  them. 

We  lost  no  time.  We  packed  up  our  goods  and 
trekked.  By  noon  of  the  next  day  we  had  been  paddled 
in  canoes  across  wide  lagoons  and  up  a  mighty  river 
by  friendly  natives.  Then  we  plunged  into  the  bush- 
land. 

The  very  silence  of  that  South  Sea  forest  and  the 
gleam  of  the  sea  horizon — just  visible  through  the  woods 
of  mighty  breadfruits — gave  one's  imagination  the  at- 
mosphere of  heathenland  mystery.  We  could  hear  the 
mountain  drums  beating  the  sunset  down  somewhere  up 
in  the  native  villages.  To  the  N.N.W.  were  the  wild, 
tribal,  haunted  mountains  of  Vuni-cunu,  running  in  a 
westerly  direction,  finally  meeting  the  ranges  of  Muani- 
vatu.  Around  us  stood  huge  tropical  trees — banyans, 
breadfruits,  big  bamboos,  limes,  and  the  ndrala  laden 
with  scarlet  blossoms.  The  airs  of  the  deep  glooms, 
heavy  with  the  wild  perfumes  of  dying  hibiscus  and 
many  strange,  exotic  forest  flowers,  sent  pungent  odours 
to  our  nostrils.  Not  so  far  away  tumbled  the  cool,  swirl- 
ing waters  of  the  river,  hurrying  on  their  homeward 
journey  from  the  mountains  that  formed  a  grand,  wildly 
picturesque  background  to  the  district  where  the  large, 
shed-like  building  of  the  Charity  Organization  of  the 
South  Seas  was  situated. 

Sheltered  by  feathery  palms  and  one  or  two  mighty 
buttressed  banyans,  that  dark,  vine-overgrown  building 
looked  like  some  peaceful  hermitage,  some  primitive  mon- 


278  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

astery  that  sheltered  aged  missionaries.  True  enough, 
missionaries  dwelt  therein;  but  what  missionaries  they 
were ! — men  who  relieved  unhappy  men  who  had  shaved 
their  beards  off  and  arrived  in  haste  overburdened  with 
cash !  Yes,  they  rested  there  in  security  till  the  hot  scent 
had  blown  over,  and  once  again  they  could  continue  on 
their  way  across  the  wine-dark  seas,  outbound  for  the 
enchanted  realms  of  No-Extradition  Ports,  where  dwell 
the  Great  Missing! 

Could  one  have  put  one's  ear  to  that  Organization's 
low-roofed  door,  one  would  have  distinctly  heard  a  chorus 
of  muffled  oaths  and  snatches  of  wild  song  droning  from 
the  lips  of  the  mysterious  inmates  of  that  Arabian  Nights- 
like  establishment.  Could  one  have  opened  that  door  on 
the  sly  and  peeped  in,  one  would  have  seen  a  sight  worth 
seeing  if  only  for  its  anthropological  interest.  All  types 
were  there,  from  the  genuine  "  hard  up  "  honest  sailor- 
man  down  to  the  reformed  native  from  Timbuctoo. 
There  they  sat:  sun-tanned  men  from  the  seas,  ex-con- 
victs, liber es  from  New  Caledonia;  handsome  faces, 
bleared  and  serious-looking;  hideous,  sallow  faces  with 
pugnacious  pug  noses — Chinese,  half-caste  Malays,  and 
one  or  two  runaway  ships'  apprentices.  Most  of  them 
were  leaning  over  the  large  bench-like  table,  shuffling 
cards  and  drinking  fiery  rum,  as  ever  and  anon  they 
glanced  beneath  the  rims  of  their  wide-brimmed  som- 
breros, and  stared  with  hunted-looking  eyes  toward  the 
shanty's  door.  They  were  ever  on  the  alert!  O'Hara 
and  I  had  been  in  that  place  only  two  days  when  two 
runaways  arrived  from  Suva — one  of  whom  hailed  from 
London  Town,  the  other  from  Noumea.  They  usually 
arrived  without  portmanteaux,  under  the  cover  of  night, 
tapped  at  the  door,  paid  the  bribe  demanded,  and  so  came 
under  the  flag  of  brotherhood  and  the  protection  of  that 
Charity  Organization's  kindness. 


CHARITY  ORGANIZATION        279 

O'Hara  was  tremendously  excited  about  it  all,  and  so 
was  I.  We  got  to  love  exciting  cases.  One  day,  as 
O'Hara  and  I  were  watching  the  antics  of  a  covey  of 
native  children  romping  like  puppies  in  the  forest  ferns, 
we  heard  the  sound  of  voices. 

"What's  that?"  said  O'Hara. 

"  Sounds  like  the  paddles  of  a  canoe  and  voices  on 
the  beach,"  I  replied. 

We  listened  again,  and  distinctly  heard  sounds  as  of  a 
woman  weeping.  Going  up  the  little  slope,  we  peeped 
through  the  banyan  trunks ;  sure  enough,  there  were  new 
arrivals  seeking  the  Organization's  shelter.  They  were 
two  in  all,  the  third  person,  who  was  leading  them  across 
the  dense  fern  scrub,  was  Bill  Bode,  the  second  in  com- 
mand of  the  shanty.  One  of  the  fugitives  was  a  tall, 
aristocratic-looking  man;  the  other  a  young  and  pretty 
girl.  It  was  very  evident  that  the  latter  felt  depressed 
as  she  looked  in  wonder  at  the  sombre  forest  surround- 
ing us. 

The  shadows  of  night  were  falling  when  we  crept 
softly  down  the  tracks  and  once  more  entered  that  mys- 
terious shanty's  door. 

That  building  consisted  of  several  large,  low-roofed 
rooms  and  two  small  compartments  that  were  strictly 
private.  One  was  arranged  with  much  taste,  even  deco- 
rated with  flower-pots  and  provided  with  the  essentials 
for  a  fragile  guest ;  and  when  the  fugitive  arrived,  bring- 
ing with  him  the  sad  cause  of  his  downfall,  it  was  in 
that  small  compartment  that  she  slept! 

As  O'Hara  and  I  arrived  in  the  rooms  of  that  Sailors' 
Boarding  Establishment,  for  such  it  was  to  us,  the  new 
arrival  walked  quietly  into  the  primitive  saloon  bar,  gave 
a  friendly  nod  to  the  members  of  the  motley  throng,  and 
sat  down  amongst  the  guests,  who  were  mostly  belated 
sailors  awaiting  a  ship.  For,  as  I  have  intimated  before, 


280  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

not  all  who  dwelt  beneath  that  roof  were  hiding  from 
the  long  arm  of  the  law.  If  anyone  had  doubts  as  to 
the  respectability  of  that  place,  they  would  have  been 
quickly  dispelled  had  he  seen  the  look  on  the  faces  of 
those  rough  men  when  someone  tapped  loudly  at  the 
door.  That  same  evening  Ko-Ko,  the  half-caste  native 
maid,  was  dancing  on  the  large  bench  at  the  far  end  of 
the  room.  Everything  seemed  rosy  and  peaceful.  As 
the  rough  men  cheered  and  repeatedly  encored  the  girl's 
dances,  and  one  played  the  banjo  and  step-danced  an 
incongruous  obligato  to  the  girl's  song,  the  hilarity  was 
suddenly  turned  off  like  a  gas-jet !  Crash !  someone  had 
knocked  violently  at  the  shanty's  front  door! 

Every  "  man-jack  "  breathed  an  oath,  put  his  hand  to 
his  sheath-knife,  and  glared  his  anticipation  of  the  arrival 
of  the  police  from  Suva.  The  new  arrival  trembled  visi- 
bly, and  turned  ashy-white  as  once  more  it  came — crash ! 
crash!  on  the  door. 

Just  by  the  door  was  a  huge  tub  which  was  a  kind  of 
emergency  barrel.  The  whole  scene,  there  in  the  shadows, 
seemed  like  some  terribly  realistic  moving-picture  show 
enacting  before  our  eyes.  Bones  had  rushed  from  the 
next  room,  lifted  the  vast  lid  from  the  barrel,  while  four 
stalwart  men  lifted  the  new  arrival  bodily — crash!  bang! 
the  stranger  had  gone ! 

Only  a  muffled  swear-word  told  the  way  of  his  going 
as  the  lid  went  down. 

Bones,  who  was  the  head  of  that  Organization,  and 
pocketed  the  bribes,  gave  his  holiest  smile,  his  half- 
humorous-looking  face  betraying  no  sign  of  the  intense 
excitement  of  the  moment  when  the  new-comer  had  dis- 
appeared from  life's  wildest  drama  beneath  the  lid  of  that 
huge  barrel. 

As  the  door  opened,  a  giant  of  a  fellow  stood  framed 
by  the  opening.  It  appeared  that  he  was  a  half-caste 


CHARITY  ORGANIZATION        281 

official  from  the  Suva  police  force.  When  he  had  told 
Bones  that  a  canoe  had  been  found  on  the  beach,  and 
that  they  had  received  information  that  a  fugitive  from 
the  N.S.W.  mail  steamer  had  landed  at  Suva,  Bones  simu- 
lated a  terrible  passion. 

"  What  the  b h yer  come  'ere  for?  What's 

that  to  do  with  me?  " 

"  Keep  yer  wig  on,"  said  the  official,  standing  just 
behind  the  first  man,  who  by  this  time  had  given  Bones 
a  significant  wink.  It  required  very  little  thought  to 
enable  one  to  discern  that  Bones  was  well  in  with  those 
officials.  And  one's  suspicions  would  have  soon  been 
confirmed  had  one  seen  the  official  in  question  sit  down 
on  the  emergency  barrel,  and  grin  from  ear  to  ear  as  a 
muffled  sneeze  came  from  beneath  the  lid! 

In  a  few  moments  the  friendly  man-hunters  had  passed 
away,  happy  enough  with  their  bribe, — bribery  being  the 
staple  trade  of  that  establishment. 

Next  day  a  shot  was  heard  in  the  forest.  When  the 
Organization  members  rushed  out  beneath  the  palms,  they 
only  discovered  the  quivering  body  of  yesterday's  arrival 
• — the  new-comer  had  blown  the  top  of  his  head  off !  They 
hid  the  body  beneath  the  scrub.  Next  day  they  buried 
him  on  the  quiet,  miles  away,  near  the  old-time  sugar 
plantations. 

Bones  and  three  or  four  others  were  the  chief  mourn- 
ers. No  coffin,  simply  a  bit  of  old  tarpaulin  tied  tightly  at 
the  feet  and  again  round  the  neck,  the  canvas  so  short 
that  the  poor  fugitive's  hair  stuck  out  in  a  pathetic  bunch. 
It  was  like  burying  a  man  at  sea  as  they  dropped  him 
down  into  that  hastily-dug  hollow.  O'Hara  crossed  him- 
self. Bones  said  something  that  sounded  kind.  As  for 
the  girl,  she  wept  bitterly,  trembling  like  a  leaf  as  she 
knelt  by  the  grave-side.  It  made  me  wonder  if  I  dreamed 
that  sight — a  grave  in  a  South  Sea  forest,  that  silent, 


282  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

canvas-wrapt  figure,  and  that  innocent-looking  girl  with 
a  world  of  sorrow,  utter  misery  on  her  face.  She  wasn't 
his  daughter ;  there  was  something  too  passionately  poeti- 
cal in  the  things  she  said  as  she  knelt  there,  caring  not 
at  all  for  the  men  who  stared  down  at  her  with  a  misty 
look  in  their  eyes. 

Two  days  after  that,  she  had  sufficiently  recovered 
so  that  she  could  venture  to  travel.  The  kindness  of 
Bones  and  the  shady  characters  was  something  that  re- 
vealed in  an  indisputable  manner  that  a  woman's  pres- 
ence and  sorrow  have  more  religious  influence  on  sinful 
hearts  than  all  the  Psalms. 

No  one  knew  the  exact  way  of  that  girl's  going.  But 
the  favoured  theory  was  that  Bones  and  the  Organiza- 
tion members  had  made  a  collection  and  so  paid  her  fare 
in  the  next  steamer  that  was  bound  for  London. 

Next  day  a  clergyman  arrived.  "  Ecclesiastical  pro- 
fession "  was  writ  in  sombre  lines  across  his  lean  physi- 
ognomy. 

"  Who's  coming  here  next?  "  breathed  O'Hara,  as  we 
looked  up  from  the  pages  of  our  novels,  making  sure  that 
he  too  was  fleeing  from  the  righteous  arm  of  justice. 
But  we  were  mistaken.  He  was  simply  a  kind-hearted 
religious  crank  who  spent  his  days  in  wandering  from 
isle  to  isle  seeking  to  reform  fallen  men.  His  woe- 
begone, melancholy  aspect  cast  a  deep  gloom  over  the 
establishment  as  he  moaned  out  sad  quotations  from  his 
Bible,  a  gloom  that  pervaded  the  forest  and  darkened 
the  sea  horizon.  Bones  shook  him  heartily  by  the  hand 
when  he  first  arrived  and  said  pious  things.  Bones  had 
a  face  like  cast-iron,  but  was  soft-hearted  and  the  finest 
hypocrite  extant.  Some  of  the  honest  sailormen,  yield- 
ing to  that  sad  ecclesiastic's  soft  persuasion,  listened  to 
long  passages  from  the  Psalms  and  Solomon's  Song. 
Then  he  took  O'Hara  and  me  down  to  the  tribal  villages 


CHARITY  ORGANIZATION        283 

and  introduced  us  to  some  of  the  old-time  chiefs.  Shaggy 
old  women  prostrated  themselves  at  his  feet  as  he  prayed 
for  their  souls. 

It  was  very  evident  that  he  had  been  that  way  before. 
Everyone  seemed  to  know  him.  I  got  to  like  him  im- 
mensely during  the  two  days  that  he  stopped  with  Bones. 
His  madness  was  interesting  and  original,  and  made  an 
agreeable  change  after  consorting  with  mortals  who  were 
quite  sane.  Then  he,  too,  passed  away  on  his  melancholy 
wanderings. 

After  he  went,  there  arrived  a  troupe  of  troubadours, 
who  came  from  Melbourne  as  deck-passengers  on  a 
schooner.  Among  their  number  were  three  American 
girls  who  turned  that  shanty  into  a  kind  of  opera  bouffe, 
as  they  sang  and  step-danced  in  a  wonderful  way.  The 
scene  inside  when  the  girls  danced  and  the  fat  man 
played  his  guitar,  looked  like  some  living-picture  repre- 
sentation of  Madame  Tussaud's,  as  though  all  the  lifeless 
criminals  had  been  mysteriously  awakened  and  were 
applauding  the  visitors,  waving  big  hats  in  wild  ecstasy 
at  being  serenaded  so  sweetly  while  in  their  degraded 
state.  For,  as  they  listened  to  the  troubadours,  about 
twenty  of  us  stood  by,  looking  on  the  shadowy  scene 
lit  up  by  the  tallow  candles  that  swung  to  and  fro  on 
wires  suspended  from  the  roof  of  the  wide  bar- 
room. 

I  believe  the  wandering  troupe  made  a  splendid  col- 
lection that  night.  I  know  the  fat  man,  with  a  big 
stomach,  got  very  drunk,  sang  several  songs,  and  then 
fell  down.  And  the  girls  giggled  all  night  long  as  they 
slept  in  the  private  compartment,  wherein  the  unhappy 
fugitive  girl  had  rested  the  night  before. 

Next  day  the  troupe  bade  us  all  farewell,  for  they 
were  bound  for  'Frisco,  and  the  boat  was  leaving  at 
noon. 


284  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

I  think  O'Hara  and  I  had  been  at  the  establishment 
for  two  weeks  then.  It  wasn't  a  long  time,  but  I  had 
seen  more  strange  sides  of  life  in  that  short  time  than 
one  could  well  see  under  normal  circumstances  in  twenty 
years.  But  it  must  be  admitted  that  my  immediate  ex- 
periences seemed  very  vapid  compared  with  the  exciting 
adventures  of  the  peculiar  men  who  arrived  at  the  Charity 
Hermitage  and  seemed  never  weary  of  telling  their  remi- 
niscences and  hairbreadth  escapes  to  the  new-comers. 
Even  O'Hara  opened  his  mouth  in  astonishment  at  all 
he  heard  from  the  lips  of  those  who  yearned  to  tell  yarns, 
as  over  and  over  again  some  strange  old  derelict  would 
pull  his  whiskers  while  dropping  into  deep  meditation 
as  to  "  what  happened  next."  That  Hermitage  of  the 
South  Seas  was  a  kind  of  Old  Inn  on  life's  highway 
•wherein  sad  men  entered  from  the  unknown,  sat  and 
drank,  sang  a  song,  and  then  departed  out  into  the  un- 
known, sometimes  in  a  great  hurry.  Three  extraordi- 
nary-looking beings  arrived  at  the  Hermitage  one  night. 
One  resembled  Don  Quixote  in  extremis,  another  had  a 
huge  crooked  nose  that  was  swathed  by  a  vast  reddish 
beard,  and  the  third  had  a  huge,  domed  bald  head  that 
looked  like  a  mighty  billiard  ball  with  flapping  ears. 
They  were  attired  in  loose,  dilapidated  pantaloons,  heavy 
belts,  coloured  shirts,  and  firearms,  and  might  have  been 
South  Sea  freebooters,  blackbirders,  or  anything  that  is 
•wild  and  lawless,  if  appearances  are  to  be  relied  upon. 
They  hadn't  been  in  the  Organization  Hermitage  twelve 
hours  before  the  half-caste  surveillants  arrived  at  the 
door.  The  three  new-comers  at  once  made  a  bolt  out 
under  the  palms  that  led  down  to  the  seashore,  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  off.  And,  if  anyone  had  happened  to  pass 
along  the  sands  that  afternoon,  they  would  assuredly  have 
seen  three  weird-looking  objects  with  twinkling  eyes 
sticking  up  out  of  the  calm  blue  waters  by  the  shore's 


CHARITY  ORGANIZATION        285 

coral  reefs.  To  an  imaginative  observer  those  objects 
would  certainly  have  resembled  the  figureheads  of  three 
sunken  Chinese  junks,  wooden  faces  protruding,  just  vis- 
ible at  low-tide,  the  eyes  glassy,  staring  at  the  sky,  lips 
tightly  compressed,  the  nostrils  level  with  the  ocean's 
surface.  But  then  again,  the  vast  polished  bald  head 
of  one  was  unaccountable,  and  the  bristly  hair  of  another 
toned  down  the  weird  unreality  of  the  scene.  For  who 
ever  saw  a  hideous  Chinese  junk's  figurehead  with  thick 
hair  on  its  crown,  and  tobacco  smoke  issuing  from  its 
mouth?  In  short,  those  three  objects  were  the  heads  of 
the  three  new-comers,  their  bodies  hidden  beneath  the 
sea's  surface,  their  heads  and  nostrils  exposed  just  suffi- 
cient so  that  they  might  inhale  the  breeze,  as  they  hid 
from  the  surveillants !  Next  day  the  natives  missed  a 
twelve-seater  outrigger  canoe.  And  had  high  chief 
Makaroa  looked  seaward,  instead  of  kneeling  and  weep- 
ing before  his  old  idol,  he  would  have  seen  a  small  object 
fading  away  on  the  ocean  horizon  far  to  the  S.W.  It 
was  none  other  than  Makaroa's  missing  canoe,  with  the 
three  fugitives,  out  on  the  wide  world  of  waters,  bound 
for  Nowhere!  But  all  this  is  only  a  detail. 

Perhaps  it  will  not  be  out  of  place  to  tell  one  of  the 
yarns  that  we  heard  at  the  Hermitage, — not  a  swash- 
buckling story,  but  a  tale  that  had  the  indisputable  ring 
of  truth  in  it.  The  teller  of  the  story  was  a  weird-looking 
fellow  of  about  fifty  years  of  age.  He  had  lived  in  the 
Solomons  and  Fiji  for  years.  I  think  he  was  a  trader. 
Anyway,  he  had  travelled  the  South  Seas  in  the  old 
heathen  times,  had  lived  in  Fiji  when  cannibalism  was 
in  vogue,  and  King  Thakombau  reigned  supreme  over1 
his  dominions  from  the  old  capital  of  Bau.  In  these 

pages  I  will  call  him  G .     I  cannot  reproduce  his 

exquisite  manner  in  telling  a  story.  I  had  never  heard 
anything  like  it  before.  He  had  lived  in  the  isles  to  the 


286  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

east  when  Bully  Hayes  roamed  the  seas,  when  King 
Tembinok  of  Apamama  was  in  his  cannibal  youthful 
prime,  and  Queen  Vaekehu  of  Tai-o-hae  welcomed  many 
a  dusky  potentate  into  her  impassioned  arms. 


CHAPTER  XVI.  YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER 

The  Wild  White  Girl— The  Wagner  of  Storms— A 
Pagan  Citadel — Pagan  Democracy — Ye  Old  Britisher — 
A  Battle  in  the  Dark. 

THIRST  I  must  state  that  G was  a  casual  member 

of  the  Charity  Organization,  an  Englishman,  and, 
from  the  general  run  of  his  conversation  and  manner, 
gave  one  the  impression  that  he  had  seen  better  days. 
But  there  was  nothing  wonderful  about  that,  for  it  is  a 
fact  that  many  of  the  apparent  rogues  of  those  days 
betrayed  something  of  past  polish,  and  possessed  a  per- 
sonality infinitely  more  interesting  than  that  of  men  who 
had  never  stepped  over  the  border-line. 

G was  a  big  lump  of  a  fellow,  just  over  six  feet 

in  height,  and  had  fine,  expressive  eyes  full  of  humour 
and  sometimes  revealing  a  lingering  sadness  that  made 
one's  heart  go  out  to  him.  Personally,  I  liked  him  im- 
mensely. He  could  play  the  flute  as  well  as  he  could 
tell  a  yarn,  and  that's  saying  something! 

But  I  would  say,  right  here,  that  the  story  that  he 
told  me,  and  which  I  will  tell  here,  is  told  not  so  much 
for  the  presumable  interest  that  it  might  give  as  a  mere 
yarn,  as  for  my  absolute  confidence  in  the  veracity  of 
the  man  who  told  me  it,  his  manner  whilst  telling  it 
leaving  such  a  possibility  as  doubt  or  exaggeration  quite 
out  of  the  question.  Nor  was  there  any  justifiable  reason 

why  one  should  be  sceptical,  since  G had  lived,  as 

I  have  said,  in  Fiji  when  cannibalism  was  in  vogue,  and 
white  men  arrived  at  the  islands  and  did  very  much  as 
they  liked, — some  resorting  to  savagery,  some  giving 

287 


288  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

their  hand  in  marriage  to  dusky  queens,  ascending  thrones 
and  holding  full  sway  over  swarthy  populations  of 
heathenland. 

It  was  a  glorious  tropical  eventide  when  G , 

O'Hara,  and  I  sat  under  the  palms  as  the  fireflies  com- 
menced to  dance  in  the  bamboos  by  the  shore  lagoons. 

G took  his  pipe  from  his  lips,  stroked  his  bearded 

chin  in  his  characteristic  way,  and  commenced : 

"  You  must  know,  boys,  that  things  were  very  different 
in  these  parts  in  the  old  semi-heathen  times.  I  had 
arrived  for  the  second  time  in  Levuka  then,  had  left  a 
trading  schooner,  and  was  spending  my  time  in  looking 
round.  I  was  a  bit  of  a  romantic  loony  in  those  days, 
and  when  my  pal,  Mick  Deny,  who  had  been  shipmate 
with  me  for  two  years,  heard  that  a  Britisher,  a  fugitive 
from  justice,  was  living  like  a  wild  man  up  in  the  Kai 
Tholos  mountains  with  his  daughter,  we  got  interested, 
I  can  tell  you.  We  got  the  whole  facts  of  the  case  out 
of  one  of  the  Kai  Tholos  natives  who  had  come  into 
Levuka  to  get  fish.  Deny  was  a  bit  gone  on  girls,  and 
when  he  heard  that  the  Britisher  had  brought  that  young 
daughter  of  his  out  to  these  infernal  regions  and  had 
brought  her  up  as  a  heathen  amongst  those  tribal  natives, 
he  was  as  eager  as  I  to  visit  the  stronghold  in  the  moun- 
tains and  see  how  matters  stood.  It  appeared  that  this 
fugitive  Britsher  had  assumed  command  over  the  tribe 
with  whom  he  dwelt,  styled  himself  as  Roko  (high  chief), 
taken  unto  himself  several  native  wives,  and  resorted  to 
the  unbridled  lust  and  degradation  of  savagery. 

"  '  How  old  is  the  girl  ?  '  queried  Deny,  as  the  native 
trader  told  us  these  facts. 

"  '  She  nicer  Marama,  grow  up  beautifuls,  nicer  crown 
hair,  nicer  eyes,  colour  of  moani  all  (the  ocean).' 

"  As  that  Fijian  gabbled  away,  waxing  enthusiastic 
over  the  beauty  of  the  exiled  white  girl  up  there,  im- 


YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER  289 

prisoned  from  the  sight  of  her  own  race,  Deny  and  I 
fairly  gasped  over  the  idea  of  it  all.  We  got  no  sleep 
that  night.  The  idea  of  that  girl  being  cruelly  treated 
by  her  criminal  parent  seemed  to  set  our  brains  afire 
with  romantic  ideas.  By  the  morning  we  had  made  our 
minds  up,  and  had  decided  to  make  an  expedition  up 
into  the  Tholos  mountains.  The  first  thing  to  do  was 
to  get  some  goods,  so  I  went  down  to  the  schooners  that 
lay  in  the  harbour,  cadged  some  sugar,  tea,  tobacco  plug, 
and  those  essentials  which  I  guessed  would  meet  our  re- 
quirements. Deny's  eyes  flashed  with  delight  at  the  idea 
of  it  all.  The  risk  of  the  job  we  were  undertaking  did 
not  deter  us,  it  only  added  spice  to  the  business.  And 
the  natives,  I  can  tell  you,  were  not  as  chummy  in  those 
days  as  they  are  now.  Old  Thakombau  had  only  just 
been  converted  to  Christianity,  had  swallowed  four  casks 
of  sacramental  rum,  and  had  shaken  hands  with  all  the 
missionaries.  But  he  was  a  sly  old  fellow,  and  didn't 
know  anything  about  the  tribal  fights  and  the  missing 
bodies  of  the  dead  after  the  Bokolai  feast  (cannibal 
feast).  Oh  no!  Not  he.  He  was  quite  converted! 
When  we  had  packed  up  our  few  traps,  not  forgetting 
my  flute,  and  were  quite  ready  to  start  off,  little  Sanga, 
the  native  girl  who  did  our  cooking  in  the  beach  shanty 
(only  one  store  in  Levuka  in  these  days),  started  crying, 

"  '  You  no-e  takeer  little  Sanga  longer  you  ? ' 

"  '  Let  the  kid  come,'  said  Deny ;  '  besides,  she'll  be 
useful,  knows  the  lingo,  and  that  kind  of  thing,'  he  added. 

"  '  All  right,  Sanga ;  don't  grizzle,'  said  I. 

"  Then  Deny  and  I  went  into  the  village  to  get  per- 
mission from  Sanga's  parents. 

"  She  couldn't  go  off  on  an  excursion  like  that  without 
getting  permission  from  her  parents.  Sanga's  mother, 
a  fine-looking  half-caste,  gave  us  the  kid  in  complete 
confidence. 


290  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

"  '  You  noble  Papalagis ;  me  trust  her  with  you.' 

"  '  Yes,  we're  holy  beggars,'  thought  I,  as  we  walked 
away  across  the  rara,  Sanga  somersaulting  with  delight 
like  a  puppy  at  our  heels,  as  we  left  the  village  and 
started  on  our  trip  to  find  out  all  about  the  Britisher  and 
his  daughter.  We  did  take  care  of  that  kiddie  too,  al- 
though we  had  some  rough  times  ere  bringing  her  safely 
back  to  her  village. 

"  By  midday  next  day  we  had  tramped  many  miles 
inland,  and  had  already  crossed  the  lower  ranges  of  the 
mountains  to  the  N.N.W. 

"  Sanga  was  a  blessing  to  us,  and  sang  weird  heathen 
songs  as  she  tramped  by  our  side.  I  had  dressed  her  up 
in  a  little  blue  kimono  which  I  had  cut  out  of  a  large 
silk  handkerchief,  cutting  holes  in  it  for  the  armpits. 
When  she  looked  at  herself  in  the  lagoon  hard  by,  she 
chuckled  with  delight.  The  first  night  was  all  that  could 
be  desired  as  we  slept  beneath  the  palms,  side  by  side, 
and  Deny  sang  a  highland  song  till  I  fell  asleep. 

"  The  next  night  a  typhoon  blew.  It  was  something 
that  I  had  never  heard  before  in  the  way  of  nature's 
extempore  musical  expression.  As  you  know,  I  am  not 
much  of  a  musician.  I  can  play  the  flute  and  knock 
out  the  common  chords  for  a  song  and  dance  on  the 
piano;  but  to  describe  the  harmonies  that  storm  made 
in  the  mountains  is  quite  beyond  me.  We  were  all 
tired  out,  just  going  off  to  sleep.  In  fact,  I  heard  Deny 
snoring.  Sanga  lay  at  my  feet,  her  head  on  my  calf, 
as  she  hummed  in  the  dark.  Then  it  came — no  warning, 
mind  you.  Bang!  It  seemed  as  if  there  had  been  some 
tremendous  upheaval  in  interstellar  space,  that  worlds 
and  planets  were  exploding  like  vast  bombs  somewhere 
beyond  the  moon,  the  south-western  horizon  being  re- 
peatedly blown  out  as  the  debris  struck  the  mountains 
around  us.  The  enormous  breadfruits  and  banyans,  all 


YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER  291 

bending  and  howling  like  the  sails,  rigging,  and  masts 
of  ships  in  a  hurricane,  moaned  a  wild  symphony  in  the 
pitch  darkness,  for  the  clouds  had  slid  over,  puff!  and 
put  the  moon  out  without  any  warning.  Once  a  star 
gleamed  as  the  wrack  raced  across  the  sky.  Sanga 
huddled  close  up  to  Deny  as  I  put  my  hand  out  to  see 
where  they  were.  Then  the  moon  burst  through  the  cloud 
and  the  shadows  went  racing  across  the  gullies  till  it 
seemed  that  the  mountains  themselves  were  moving  along, 
sailing  before  a  head  wind!  Then  the  deluge  began. 
We  were  sheltered  in  a  native  hut,  but  the  rain  came  in 
by  the  bucketful.  Oceans  seemed  to  crash  down  from 
the  sky.  Mighty  trees  were  uplifted,  and  before  they 
fell  to  the  earth  were  carried  across  the  gullies  like  twigs 
before  the  tremendous  violence  of  the  wind.  Then  there 
started  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  way  of  sound 
that  I  have  ever  heard,  or  shall  ever  hear  again.  It 
seemed  that  a  thousand  demons  had  come  out  to  carouse 
and  play  ghostly  instruments  in  some  phantom  military 
band.  I  never  heard  anything  to  resemble  it.  Drums 
began  to  beat,  a  thousand  strong,  bassoons,  horns,  double 
basses,  clarionets,  'cellos,  saxaphones,  bugles,  cornets — 
all  wailing  and  bellowing  forth  in  the  wildest  orchestral 
combination  that  human  ears  ever  heard.  '  God !  What 
is  it  pal  ? '  yelled  Deny  in  my  ear,  and  his  voice  sounded 
like  the  wail  of  a  child.  My  own  heart  thumped. 
'  Strange  that  I  should  live  to  see  the  end  of  the  world,' 
thought  I,  as  that  terrible  nightmare  of  sound  suddenly 
subsided,  while  the  typhoon  stopped  a  moment  to  take 
breath !  We  didn't  know  it  then,  but  that  typhoon  was  a 
kind  of  mighty  Wagner  of  the  elements  that  came  by 
night  with  universal  breath  to  blow  the  terrific  diapasons, 
vast  bassoons  and  thunderous  wails,  whistles,  and  timpani 
effects  in  the  mightiest  orchestral  instrument  that  creation 
has  made,  so  far  as  I  know.  It  was  like  this :  those 


292  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

mountains  were  volcanic,  and  so  were  fairly  honeycombed 
with  precipitous  tunnels  and  big  cavernous  hollows,  each 
hollow  possessing  its  own  peculiar,  specific  quality  of 
sound,  so  that  when  the  typhoon  arrived,  and  its  ten 
thousand  orchestral  members,  so  to  speak,  placed  their 
phantom  lips  and  blew  terrifically  into  each  crevice,  the 
noice  resembled  something  like  ten  thousand  Eastern 
Monday  steam-organs  and  beating-drums  going  hard  and 
strong  on  some  holiday  down  in  shadowland! 

"  I  don't  exaggerate  when  I  say  that  some  of  the  notes 
rang  out  in  clear,  silvery,  bugle  tones,  some  full  and 
mellow,  tremulous  with  throbbing  expression;  then  the 
muffled  sound  of  a  mighty  drum  would  boom  out  in  that 
infinite  harmony  of  the  dark  and  wind!  When  you 
consider  that  a  typhoon's  terrific  and  tremendously  varied 
breathing  powers  blew  through  a  thousand  thousand  deep- 
voiced  bugles  and  trumpets  with  curling  tubes  that  went 
running  right  down  into  the  volcanic  bowels  of  the  Fijian 
Isles,  there  wasn't  much  wonder  in  the  fact  that  wonder- 
fully marvellous  subtle  musical  effects  and  perfect  in- 
tonation should  crop  up  somewhere.  Of  course,  Deny 
and  I  hadn't  the  slightest  idea  then  as  to  how  that  pan- 
demonium of  sound  came  about. 

"  The  end  of  the  world  arrived  and  they  sent 
some  kind  of  a  brass  band  to  lead  the  battalions  of  the 
dead  heathens  into  shadowland;  that's  what  it  is,'  yelled 
Deny,  cheering  up  when  I  touched  him,  to  assure  myself 
that  we  were  still  in  the  flesh. 

"  I  think  Sanga  cheered  us  up  more  than  anything. 
She  even  laughed,  just  as  we  thought  we  were  about  to 
die  too! 

"  She  was  a  plucky  youngster,  and  good-looking  to 
boot. 

"  When  dawn  came  the  sun  burst  through  the  sky  as 
though  it  was  in  a  hurry.  It  seemed  to  boil  the  soaking 


YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER  293 

mountain  forests.  We  could  see  the  chameleon-like 
colours  sparkling,  as  the  steam  from  the  heated  tropical 
vegetation  rolled  away  over  the  rugged  hills.  We  were 
drenched  through.  By  nightfall  I  was  seized  with  pains 
in  the  back.  It  was  a  kind  of  malaria.  My  limbs  began 
to  quiver.  By  midnight  I  was  delirious. 

"  '  Don't  die,  pal,'  said  Deny,  as  I  begged  him,  for  old 
time's  sake,  to  strangle  the  mighty  heathen  god  who  kept 
peering  through  the  clouds,  putting  his  stinking  mop-head 
against  my  nose  as  he  struck  me  tremendous  blows  on 
the  head  with  a  war-club!  But  I  could  not  die.  When 
I  had  slept  for  an  hour  and  got  a  bit  sane,  things  seemed 
as  bad.  For  the  thousands  of  insects  that  had  sought 
refuge  from  the  storm  in  our  hut  attacked  me.  Scor- 
pions, fat-bodied  lizards,  and  huge  red  ants,  as  big  as 
walnuts,  and  red  land-crabs  formed  up  in  regiments  and 
attacked  us.  I  felt  strange  things  creeping  up  the  inside 
of  my  pants  as  they  flapped  their  rudimentary  wings. 
Then  Deny  took  me  outside  and  gave  me  a  drink  of  rum. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  fever  had  abated.  By  midday  I 
was  as  fit  as  a  fiddle. 

"  Deny  was  a  splendid  cook.  He  gathered  some  feis 
(bananas)  and  yams  from  the  garden  of  the  deserted 
heathen  hut,  and  made  a  glorious  meal. 

"  Then  we  started  off,  Sanga  singing  cheerily  behind 
us  as  we  trekked  it  up  into  the  higher  ranges. 

"  By  this  time  we  were  near  Nisao,  and  had  already 
sighted  one  of  the  native  villages  to  the  S.W.  Though 
we  had  heard  that  the  natives  of  that  part  were  friendly, 
still  we  were  not  taking  any  risks,  so  we  sent  Sanga  across 
the  gullies  as  an  advance-guard.  She  whipped  off  like 
an  arrow,  without  the  slightest  fear.  When  she  came 
back  she  was  accompanied  by  four  stalwart  chiefs  and 
two  women.  To  our  relief  they  were  waving  their  hands 
friendly-wise,  welcoming  us  to  their  village. 


294  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

"  As  we  crossed  the  gully  bridge — a  huge  breadfruit 
trunk — the  sight  of  the  small  conical  homesteads  beneath 
the  feathery  palms,  the  beautiful  moss- ferns,  and  scarlet- 
flowered  ndralas,  gave  one  the  impression  that  we  were 
entering  some  perfect,  pagan  city  of  shadowland.  Romp- 
ing children  stopped  their  games,  rushed  out  of  the  shad- 
ows and  hut  doorways  to  gaze  on  Deny  and  me  in  aston- 
ishment. The  shaggy-haired  women  by  the  huts  were 
smoking  clay  pipes,  squatting  on  mats,  and  staring  stol- 
idly at  the  pretty  native  girls,  who  fawned  about  us, 
stroked  our  hands,  and  said  in  their  own  lingo,  '  O 
beautiful  Papalagis,  with  blue  eyes!' 

"  It  was  all  right,  I  can  tell  you.  Suddenly  a  giant  of 
a  fellow  stood  up  from  among  a  huddled  group  of  sav- 
ages and  come  towards  us.  By  the  distinguished  tattoo- 
esque  coat-of-arms  on  his  massive  chest  and  shoulders, 
I  knew  that  he  must  be  the  tribal  chief.  Besides,  as 
he  came  towards  us,  he  was  followed  by  an  obsequious 
retinue  of  eight  half -decayed-looking  old  women,  who 
were  crawling  on  their  wrinkled  stomachs  as  they  placed 
their  travelling  hands  in  their  august  master's  footprints. 
They  were  his  old,  cast-off  wives.  The  new  batch  of 
young  wives  were  squatting  by  the  big  palavana,  showing 
their  pearly  teeth  and  making  eyes  at  Deny  and  me.  One 
cheeky  little  wench,  who  was  clad  in  a  tappa-gown  of 
two  inches  in  width  and  half  a  yard  in  length,  took  a 
flower  from  her  hair  and  threw  it  towards  us. 

"  I  can  remember  it  all  as  though  it  were  yesterday.  I 
can  even  hear  the  strange  bird  that  was  singing  up  in  the 
citron  trees,  which  grew  just  over  the  little  plot  where 
they  buried  their  dead.  We  felt  a  bit  swaggery  when 
the  military  band  came  out  of  the  chief  palavana,  formed 
up  with  their  instruments  (vuvis,  bone  flutes,  human 
bones,  gourds  with  strings  across,  lais,  wooden  drums, 
and  bamboo  flutes),  and  commenced  to  play  an  anthem 


YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER  295 

of  welcome  as  we  entered  the  stockade  gateway  that  led 
into  that  portion  of  the  village  where  the  head  chief  re- 
ceived ambassadors  in  council.  I  think  the  sight  of  all 
was  Sanga,  as  she  marched  just  ahead  of  us,  a  flower 
dangling  in  her  hair,  and  her  little  chest  swelled  majesti- 
cally, as  she  looked  sideways  on  the  tribal  children,  who 
were  staring  at  her  with  awestruck  eyes. 

"  If  I  had  had  any  poetic  idea  in  my  head  about  that 
village  being  some  dwelling-place  of  fairy-land,  I'm  sure 
it  was  soon  dispelled  when  we  passed  by  the  village  dust- 
bin. 

"  '  Phew ! '  said  Deny,  as  Sanga  and  I  sniffed  and  held 
our  noses.  Even  in  those  high  altitudes  of  the  Fijian 
mountain  villages  there  was  considerable  room  for  sani- 
tary improvement. 

"  Such  was  our  reception  in  Nisao  just  twenty  years 
ago. 

"That  same  night  we  got  pally  with  the  high  chief, 
Roko  (meaning  '  high-born  ').  He  gave  us  all  the  direct 
information  that  we  required;  told  us  that,  true  enough, 
a  white  man  did  dwell  up  in  the  cool  mountain  villages 
of  the  cannibal  Kai  Tholos.  Then  he  told  us  how  the 
White  Roko  had  lorded  it  over  the  village  folk  of  Tumba 
for  quite  ten  years,  after  having  made  himself  their  chief. 
It  seemed  as  though  we  dreamed  it  all  as  we  stood  there, 
Deny  and  I,  and  heard  the  astounding  facts  as  we  warily 
got  the  friendly  chief  on  the  tack  that  we  were  most 
interested  in.  He  nodded  his  head  and  said : 

"  '  Yes,  Papalagi,  beautiful  white  Marama  (white  girl) 
live  up  there  too;  nicer  chief  ess;  smoother  shoulders, 
whiter  skin/ 

"  Saying  this,  old  Roko  made  various  descriptive  signs 
in  an  attempt  to  convey  to  our  minds  the  wondrous  beauty 
of  the  White  Roko's  daughter.  It  was  then  that  we  learnt 
that  the  Englishman  was  known  to  his  tribe  by  the  name 


296  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

of  Yoraka.  Whether  his  name  was  Yorick,  and  this 
name  that  he  was  known  by  was  a  bastardized  equiva- 
lent of  it,  I  don't  know;  possibly  it  was  so. 

"  I  recall  that  that  old  chief  was  immensely  amused 
when  he  discovered  that  Deny  and  I  were  after  the  white 
girl. 

"  '  How  does  she  dress  ?  What  does  she  do  with  her- 
self ?  Is  she  wild?  Is  she  married?  '  and  such-like  ques- 
tions did  we  put  to  Roko. 

"  Roko  did  not  know  much  about  the  girl's  habits,  for 
she  was  seldom  allowed  out  of  the  Tholos  stronghold, 
and  old  chief  Roko  dared  not  go  up  there  to  his  neigh- 
bour's stronghold  because  they  were  enemies.  We  were 
delighted  to  hear  that  he  was  not  on  friendly  terms  with 
this  extraordinary  Yoraka,  for  it  enabled  us  to  extract 
a  promise  from  him  to  help  us  out  of  it  should  we  get 
into  difficulties.  We  arranged  that,  should  our  country- 
man '  turn  up  rough '  and  set  his  tribal  heathen  on  us, 
we  should  send  Sanga  back  to  his  village  for  help. 

"  '  Things  are  going  all  right/  chuckled  Deny,  when  the 
old  chief  took  a  vow  to  help  us. 

"  '  Vinaka,  O  le  tani — geroot ! '  yelled  the  tribal  war- 
riors. Then  they  lined  up ;  and  I  can  tell  you,  Deny  and 
I  felt  considerably  relieved  as  we  inspected  Roko's  body- 
guard— the  war  chiefs  who  would  come  to  our  help  if 
we  needed  them.  We  felt  like  two  seasoned  generals  as 
we  passed  along  the  lines,  inspecting  those  weird-looking, 
tattooed  warriors.  They  swelled  their  massive  chests, 
their  big  war-club  handles  standing  on  end  up  to  their 
shoulders.  They  had  tremendous  mouths,  the  teeth  dark- 
ened with  the  juice  of  the  betel-nut;  and  such  mops  of 
hair,  I'd  never  seen  the  like  before. 

"  '  Thank  God  they're  on  our  side ! '  was  my  mental 
comment,  as  the  great  Roko  shouted  '  Karoot ! '  and  up 
went  fifty  war-clubs,  ere  down  they  came,  crash!  in  the 


YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER  297 

thunderous  drill  that  would  show  us  how  easily  they 
could  smash  the  thickest  of  skulls  with  one  well-aimed 
blow! 

"  Twelve  hours  after  that  experience  we  had  done  the 
eight  miles  that  divided  Roko's  village  from  the  Tholos 
stronghold.  We  were  actually  in  sight  of  that  tiny 
mountain  citadel  wherein  had  dwelt  for  nearly  ten  years 
that  fugitive  Britisher,  Yoraka. 

"  There  was  something  terribly  weird  in  the  thought 
that  up  there  was  one  of  our  own  race  who  had  degener- 
ated into  complete  savagery  and  held  full  sway  over  the 
wild  Kai  Tholos  natives.  It  were  impossible  for  me  to 
attempt  to  find  a  name  for  the  atmosphere  that  my  imagi- 
nation conjured  up  as  Deny  and  I  stood  there,  our  white 
helmet  hats  pushed  back  on  our  heads,  our  hands  arched 
to  our  eyes  as  we  stared  towards  the  sunset  that  gleamed 
on  the  far-off  tribal  huts  of  that  solitary  stronghold. 

"'What  would  they  think  of  us?  How  would  they 
greet  us?  Would  the  white  girl  scream  and  faint  away 
at  the  delight  of  it  all  when  she  realized  that  Deny  and 
I  had  come  to  rescue  her?  Had  she  seen  white  men 
— other  than  that  damnable  parent  of  hers?  Or  had 
she  been  a  close  prisoner  from  childhood,  kept  in  utter 
darkness  of  the  great  civilized  world  beyond  the  seas?' 

"  A  thrill  of  romance  warmed  my  soul,  pulsing  through 
my  veins  like  wine,  as  the  novelty,  the  wonder  of  it  all 
seemed  to  shine  in  the  magical  ultramarine  of  the  far-off 
sea  horizon  and  the  mountain  sunset.  Within  an  hour 
of  our  romantic  contemplation  of  the  village,  we  had 
actually  entered  the  stockade  gates.  I  clutched  my 
revolver,  and  Deny  did  likewise. 

"  Just  as  the  children  had  done  in  the  last  village,  out 
ran  the  kiddies  from  the  huts,  rushed  up  to  us  and 
shouted,  '  Vinaka !  Vinaka ! ' 

" '  They've  seen  plenty  of  white  people  before,  that's 


298  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

certain,'  said  I  to  Deny,  as  the  old,  squat-looking  chiefs 
and  shaggy-haired  chiefesses  stared  stolidly  at  us  as  we 
walked  by.  Possibly  it  was  our  tremendous  cheek  and 
helpless  appearance  that  disarmed  the  suspicions  of  those 
wild-looking  men  and  women  as  they  shouted  forth  their 
acclamations  of  welcome. 

"  We  gave  them  bits  of  tobacco  plug.  Thinking  it  was 
wisest  to  make  no  delay  in  letting  them  know  that  we 
were  there  on  a  friendly  visit,  we  straightway  asked 
them  to  show  us  into  the  presence  of  the  great  White 
Roko,  Yoraka.  Approaching  a  monstrous-looking  chief 
who  was  heavily  decorated  with  insigniatorial  tattoo,  we 
expressed  our  wish.  In  a  moment  a  bodyguard  had 
been  formed  and  was  solemnly  walking  ahead  of  us, 
leading  us  through  the  village.  Sanga  walked  between 
Deny  and  me.  I  noticed  that  she  too  looked  a  bit  serious 
as  she  clutched  hold  of  the  knee  of  my  trousers.  Passing 
through  a  large  archway,  that  seemed  to  be  of  natural 
rock  formation,  we  entered  another  district  of  the  village. 
As  we  turned  the  bend  by  the  orange  and  citron  trees, 
our  hearts  thumped.  We  were  standing  before  a  large, 
conical-shaped  building  that  had  evidently  been  built  on 
European  lines.  We  guessed  that  we  were  at  last  stand- 
ing before  the  residence  of  the  ex-Britisher. 

"  It  seemed  incredible  as  we  stood  there  and  thought 
of  the  man  who  had  exiled  himself  from  his  race  and 
had  resorted  to  the  unbridled  lust  and  squalor  of  all  that 
we  saw  around  us — girls  and  women  in  all  stages  of 
undress  and  motherhood.  But  it  was  not  so  strange  when 
one  thinks  of  the  criminals  and  unbridled  lust  and  squalor 
of  the  dens  of  great  cities — cities  superintended  by  vigi- 
lant police  officials  with  the  power  of  a  nation  to  help 
them  put  down  crime.  And  who  will  deny  that,  not- 
withstanding Scotland  Yard,  London,  and  White  House, 
New  York,  crime  does  exist,  that  men  do  revert  back 


YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER  299 

to  their  primitive  instincts,  resort  to  bestiality,  murder, 
and  all  that's  utterly  opposed  to  the  instincts  of  decently 
trained,  clean-minded  men.  However,  the  fact  remains 
that  there  was  a  white  man  who  dwelt  in  complete  sav- 
agery in  the  mountains  to  the  N.N.W.,  however  incredi- 
ble it  may  seem.  And  nothing  could  be  more  certain 
than  the  sound  of  a  drunken  voice  singing  an  English 
song,  the  melody  of  '  There  is  a  tavern  in  the  town,  in 
the  town ! '  coming  from  the  inside  of  that  primitive  but 
palatial-looking  dwelling  before  us! 

"  '  Keep  close  to  me,  Sanga,'  said  I,  as  the  chiefs  turned 
and  beckoned  us.  Then  Deny's  tall  form  stooped  as  he 
bent  forward  and  entered  the  doorway,  while  Sanga  and 
I  closely  followed  him. 

"  Though  I  had  conjured  up  all  kinds  of  picturesque 
types  in  my  mind  as  to  what  kind  of  a  man  I  should  see 
when  I  entered  there,  I'll  swear  that  I  was  quite  un- 
prepared for  the  villainous  type  that  I  did  see.  Squatting 
on  a  mat,  native  fashion,  was  a  burly-looking  man  of 
about  fifty  years  of  age.  His  face  was  a  dull,  pasty 
brown;  indeed,  the  man  before  us  was  more  like  a  half- 
caste  than  any  type  I  could  think  of  at  the  moment.  Even 
his  hair  was  done  up  in  a  large  mop,  native  style.  But 
the  reddish  colour  of  the  beard,  and  the  deep-set,  keen 
grey  eyes  were  unmistakable — there  squatted  a  degener- 
ate Britisher,  robed  in  all  the  glory  of  primitive  royalty. 
Hanging  from  the  wide,  low  roof  were  some  forty  coco- 
nut-oil lamps  which  added  to  the  mystery  of  the  scene 
before  us.  In  a  semicircle,  almost  up  to  his  feet,  squatted 
several  native  women,  some  of  them  young  girls,  pre- 
sumably his  wives.  To  our  astonishment  he  nodded  his 
head,  as  though  courteously  to  acquaint  us  with  the  fact 
that  he  was  pleased  to  see  us.  This  welcome  of  his 
seemed  incongruous  enough,  since  he  wore  only  a  tas- 
selled  sulu  about  his  loins,  a  garb  that  barely  reached 


300  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

to  his  muscular,  hairy  knees.  As  he  stood  up  he  re- 
sembled nothing  so  much  as  some  primitive  blacksmith 
who  wore  a  leather  apron  only — had  forgotten  to  put 
his  trousers  on. 

"  The  walls  were  decorated  with  fibre  matting,  skulls, 
old  men's  beards,  and  other  gruesome  articles  that  make 
up  the  furniture  of  barbarian  homesteads.  On  the  floor 
in  front  of  him  were  large  calabashes,  some  full  of  fruits, 
others  containing  fermenting  toddy.  These  facts  I  took 
in  at  a  glance  as  Deny  stood  speechless  on  one  side  of  me 
and  Sanga  clutched  my  hand  on  the  other  side. 

"  Suddenly  he  looked  up,  and  said :  '  Vinaka,  sirs ! 
glader  to  see  you,  o  le  su,  ter-day,  sawe?' 

"  So  long  had  it  been  since  he  had  spoken  to  his  coun- 
trymen that  he  had  actually  got  into  the  habit  of  speaking 
pigeon  English !  For  a  little  while  he  regarded  us  with 
suspicion,  then,  as  he  took  another  drink  of  toddy  from 
the  calabash  that  the  native  girls  held  to  his  lips,  he 
became  garrulous.  As  he  spoke  on  I  noticed  that  his 
speech  improved;  one  could  almost  hear  the  awakening 
in  his  brain  of  words  that  had  lain  dormant  for  years. 

"  Though  I  courteously  refused  to  drink  of  the  toddy 
that  he  ordered  to  be  handed  to  me,  Deny,  to  my  regret, 
swallowed  more  than  was  good  for  him.  This  convivial 
understanding  of  like  appetites  seemed  to  awaken  his 
interest  in  us,  for  ere  long  Deny  stood  before  him  and 
sang  some  old  Scottish  songs — '  Robin  Adair,'  and  '  Will 
ye  no'  come  back  again  ? '  I  think.  He  gave  orders  to 
his  concubines  to  fetch  us  sweet  taro,  pine-apples,  and 
many  mixed  dishes  that  were  made  from  indigenous 
fruits.  Then  he  shifted  himself,  squatted  right  opposite 
me,  and  commenced  to  ask  me  questions  about  England. 

"  '  Whas  London  loiker?  He!  he!  he!  Does  the  ole 
Queen  still  sit  on  her  throne  at  Windsor?  He !  he ! ' 

"  Saying  that,  he  gave  a  lurch  forward,  and  I  saw  that 


YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER  301 

the  pose  he  had  assumed  when  we  entered  his  dwelling- 
place  had  been  dispelled  by  drivelling  intoxication.  Still 
he  raved  on,  nudged  me  in  the  ribs,  and  shouted  toasts 
to  other  days!  Thrusting  his  pallid  face  forward,  he 
lifted  the  coco-nut  goblet,  and  yelled  again  and  again, 

'  Ows  ye  b ole  Queen ! '  then  he  gave  me  another 

violent  nudge,  and  roared  with  laughter. 

'  Nasty-looking  ole   swine ! '   said   Deny,   as   Sanga 
pinched  my  arm  and  said  in  a  quiet  voice : 
'  Come  away !    Come  away,  Papalagi ! ' 

"  I  saw  that  the  kiddie  didn't  like  the  look  of  that 
man  of  my  race,  who  leered  towards  her,  and  touched  her 
smooth  arms.  Then  Deny  and  he  became  reminiscent 
as  they  discovered  they  were  both  familiar  with  Fleet 
Street.  I  must  say  I  felt  a  bit  ashamed  of  my  comrade, 
as  he  too  lurched  forward  and  nudged  that  vile  Britisher 
in  the  ribs.  It  was  plain  as  plain  could  be  that  that 
cursed  toddy  stuff  had  made  Deny  forget  himself. 

"  '  Deny,  Deny ! '  I  said  reprovingly. 

"  Alas,  my  pal  responded  only  by  looking  up  at  me  in 
an  insane  way  and  gurgling  out,  '  Awl  'ight,  pal ! ' 

"  As  for  Yoraka,  he  opened  his  slit  mouth,  drivelled 
like  an  imbecile,  poked  his  pallid  tongue  out  over  his 
sharp-edged,  blackened  teeth,  and  yelled : 

"  '  Do  the  b natives  on  ye  old  Thames  still  wear 

clothes?  He!  he!  How's  ther  Derby  racecourse?  By 
the  gods  of  my  fathers,  I'd  giver  something  for  a  soda 
and  whisky  ter-night ! ' 

"  Saying  this  much,  as  near  as  I  can  recall  all  that  he 
said,  he  lurched,  put  his  head  forward,  and  pinched  little 
Sanga's  small  fat  leg!  The  kiddie  almost  screamed  in 
her  terror. 

"  '  It's  all  right,  Sanga.  Don't  mind  him.  He's  only 
a  drunken  Britisher,'  said  I  swiftly,  as  the  degenerate 
stooped  over  his  toddy  calabash  and  offered  Deny  another 


302  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

gobletful.  And  all  the  while  this  was  going  on  his  women 
and  girl  wives  and  servants,  squatting  on  a  mat  in  a 
semicircle  round  him,  were  regarding  Deny  and  me  with 
curious  stare. 

"  Then,  once  again,  in  hoarse  acclamations,  he  yelled 
of  England. 

" '  Do  they  still  read  their  Bibles — the  pot-bellied, 
wassailed-eyed  English?  Ye  souls  of  missionaries,  I've 
eaten  better  men  than  you  blooder  Englishman ! ' 

"  Listening  to  those  wild  remarks  from  a  drunken  man, 
and  a  fugitive  British  criminal  into  the  bargain,  I  put 
his  wild  sayings  down  as  figures  of  speech  that  repre- 
sented some  bitterness  in  his  heart  over  memories  of 
other  days.  By  now  he  was  drivelling  copiously  at  the 
mouth,  the  mop  of  hair  had  fallen  and  hung  in  ringlets 
on  his  brow.  He  resembled  some  giant  chimpanzee  as 
he  squatted  before  us,  his  narrow  eyes  glittering,  his 
reddish  beard  bunched  to  his  neck,  as  he  looked  at  Deny 
and  me  and  volleyed  forth  terrible  oaths. 

"  '  Ow's  ole  Fleet  Street  ?  Did  yer  chance  ter  know  the 

barmaid  at  ole  M 's,  Alice  M'Gill  eh?  She  was  a 

fine  wench;  hell,  what  a  figure,  a  body,  he!  he!  she 
had!' 

"  Then  he  yelped  forth  another  volley  of  disgusting 
ribaldry  that  I  wouldn't  repeat  if  you  wanted  me  to. 

"  While  all  this  was  going  on,  my  eyes  were  squinting 
round,  wondering  where  on  earth  the  girl  was  whom  we 
had  heard  so  much  about. 

"  Deny  had  started  to  sing  with  Yoraka,  who  had 
begun  to  sing  in  a  drivelling  voice: 

'  There  is  a  tavern  in  the  town,  in  the  town, 
Where  my  true  loves  sits  him  down,  sits  him  down.' 

"  Then  Yoraka  continued : 

'  I'll  'ang  me  'arp  oner  weepin'  wilier  tree 
And  may  ther  worle  go  well  with  thee.' 


YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER  303 

"  Not  liking  to  be  left  out  of  the  ensemble,  as  the 
assembled  wives,  girls,  and  servants  beat  their  hands  in 
a  kind  of  chant, — I  saw  that  the  Britisher  had  taught 
them  all  that  song,  for  they  chanted  it  in  a  rather  effective 
manner, — I  took  my  flute  from  my  breast  pocket  and 
commenced  to  play.  It  must  have  been  an  incongruous 
sight  to  see  and  to  hear  as  that  disgusting  relic  of  our 
race  squatted  there,  a  grin  on  his  blubbery  jowls,  as 
Deny,  with  lifted  hand,  sang1  and  made  eyes  at  the 
passable-looking  girls  of  the  royal  retinue,  and  I  stood, 
maestro  fashion,  my  helmet  hat  bashed  against  the  low 
roof,  performing  on  the  flute.  It  was  whilst  this  quar- 
tette was  in  progress  that  the  improbable  occurred.  Sud- 
denly the  row  of  tattooed  Fijians,  who  were  huddled 
by  the  door  of  some  inner  compartment,  all  moved  as 
though  to  make  way  for  someone.  The  tappa  curtains 
were  drawn  aside.  I  stopped  my  flute-playing;  Deny 
opened  his  mouth  and  gasped  aloud.  There  she  stood, 
her  pale  blue  eyes  open  with  astonishment  as  she  stared 
wistfully,  like  a  shadowy-figure  in  a  South  Sea  picture, 
on  Deny  and  then  on  me.  It  was  Yoraka's,  that  loath- 
some British  criminal's,  daughter! 

"  To  my  eyes,  which  had  never  before  seen  a  pure- 
blooded  white  girl  in  native  costume,  expressing  all  the 
innocent  abandonment  of  natural  life  in  the  pose  of  her 
figure  and  movement  of  her  shapely  limbs,  she  seemed 
the  most  impressively  beautiful  example  of  charming 
womanhood  that  my  eyes  had  ever  beheld.  She  was 
sun-tanned  from  head  to  feet,  as  though  she  had  been 
varnished  by  some  artist  with  a  wondrous  mixture  that 
resembled  a  Cremona  violin's  hue  mixed  up  with  sunlight. 
The  picturesque  raiment  of  threaded  fern-grass  that 
swathed  her  thighs,  like  a  loin-cloth,  increased  the  beauty 
of  the  picture  of  that  wild  white  girl  who  stood  there 
before  us.  She  looked  like  the  pictures  I  have  seen 


304  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

of  Queen  Boadicea.  Her  hair  was  a  bright  golden- 
bronze  hue,  like  that  deep  shade  seen  in  the  sunset's 
aftermath,  her  rough,  loosened  tresses  falling  down  to 
the  exquisitely  curved  shoulders,  while  one  or  two  stray 
locks  fell  in  front,  rippling  down  over  her  bosom  to  the 
tasselled  raiment  that  fell  in  modest  modulation  to  her 
knees.  I  had  a  suspicion  that  she  had  been  told  we 
were  there  in  that  palavana,  that  she  had  peeped  through 
the  tappa-curtains  and  seen  us,  and  had  then  gone  and 
arranged  her  secret  toilet  to  please  our  eyes.  I  discovered 
afterwards  that  the  hue  of  her  hair  and  the  length  of 
her  tresses  were  the  pride  of  the  whole  tribe,  the  chiefs 
giving  cattle  to  Yoraka  that  they  might  breathe  through 
her  tresses,  and  so  treating  her  as  a  goddess ! 

"  I  think  Deny's  heart  went  out  to  her  at  once.  How- 
ever, I  know  that  when  the  strains  of  the  flute  mingled 
with  the  notes  of  the  Scottish  songs  he  sang  that  night, 
it  was  very  hard  to  know  which  sounded  the  most  be- 
seeching ! 

"  That  which  struck  me  forcibly  as  I  scanned  the  girl's 
clear  eyes  and  fine  brow  was,  that  she  should  really  be 
the  daughter  of  the  chimpanzee-like  debauchee  squatting 
there  before  us.  But,  recalling  to  mind  the  trite  old 
saying,  '  'Tis  a  wise  child  that  knows  its  own  father,'  I 
gave  the  girl  the  benefit  of  the  doubt;  nor  did  this 
opinion  of  mine  cast  a  slur  on  the  mother,  for  by  the 
character  of  the  man  before  us,  none  could  blame  her 
for  bestowing  her  secret  affections  on  another  than  her 
'  rightful  lord.'  I  confess  that  the  girl  had  her  failings. 
But  they  seemed  only  some  natural  expression  of  the 
innate  instincts  that  are  prominent  in  all  the  actions  of 
her  more  fortunate,  civilized  white  sisters.  For,  as  I 
watched,  it  was  quite  evident  that,  notwithstanding 
Deny's  boisterous  manner  as  he  ogled  her,  twirling  his 
moustache  and  assuming  a  massive  gallantry  that  I  had 


YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER  305 

not  thought  him  capable  of,  she  favoured  his  advances; 
indeed,  she  actually  returned  with  interest  his  admiring 
looks  as  her  eyes  roamed  up  and  down  his  giant  figure, 
that  swayed,  drunken-wise,  before  her. 

"  'He !  he !  nicer  girl — eh  ? '  leered  Yoraka,  as  he  ob- 
served Deny's  infatuated  glances. 

"  Then  that  heathen  scoundrel  lurched  forward  and 
pinched  Sanga's  leg  again,  putting  on  such  an  unholy 
look  as  he  gazed  on  her,  that  I  felt  like  giving  him  a 
punch  under  the  ear.  I've  seen  Chinamen,  Niggers, 
Kaffirs,  Turks,  all  grades  of  followers  of  Mohammed, 
Borneo  cannibals,  and  what  not,  gaze  on  young  native 
girls,  but  the  look  in  that  degenerate  Britisher's  eyes 
beat  them  all  for  downright  wickedness.  He  looked  like 
some  personification  of  all  the  guile,  hypocrisy,  power, 
indescribable  lust,  and  bestiality  of  white  man,  that  have 
blighted  native  life  in  these  isles,  crammed  into  one  skull, 
gleaming  forth  from  one  pair  of  terrible  eyes,  drivelling 
and  chuckling  from  one  mouth,  expressed  on  one  iron 
brow,  voiced  by  one  filthy,  fang-like  tongue. 

"  Deny's  dead  now.  I  won't  say  a  word  of  the  further 
doings  of  that  night.  He'd  been  down  with  fever  too; 
the  weather  was  terribly  muggy  into  the  bargain,  and 
that  does  put  a  thirst  into  a  man.  And,  moreover,  not- 
withstanding the  hideousness  of  all  Yoraka's  actions,  and 
the  fright  that  we  both  confessed  we  felt  afterwards, 
through  being  in  his  power,  there  was  something  fascinat- 
ing in  the  novelty  of  it  all.  I  think  it  took  twelve  high 
chiefs  to  carry  Deny  across  the  rara  (space)  and  lay 
him  down  in  the  hut  that  had  been  allotted  to  him,  Sanga, 
and  my  humble  self. 

"  I  rubbed  my  eyes  in  the  morning,  wondering  if  I 
had  dreamed  it  all.  It  was  no  dream  though ;  there  was 
no  mistaking  the  reality  of  the  wild  bird's  song  that  sang 
in  the  mountain  banyans  just  outside  our  hut  door.  Be- 


306  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

sides,  there  sat  little  Sanga,  rubbing  her  sleepy  eyes,  and 
Deny  was  as  real  as  real  could  be,  as  he  sat  there  with 
his  head  in  a  large  calabash  of  cold  water,  cooling  his 
fevered  skull ! 

"  We  had  no  sooner  eaten  the  food  that  the  natives 
brought  to  us  than  we  were  outside  in  the  clear  morning 
air.  Our  great  desire  was  to  see  that  white  girl  again. 

" '  We  must  get  her  away  from  this  hell  of  a  hole/ 
said  Deny,  turning  his  eyes  away  from  me  as  though 
he  felt  a  bit  ashamed  of  himself.  Then  he  said :  '  You 
got  a  bit  rocky  last  night,  didn't  you,  pal  ? ' 

"'A  bit  rocky!'  said  I,  feeling  disgusted  at  such  an 
insinuation  from  my  comrade,  who  had  lowered  my 
prestige  in  that  village  by  his  drunken  behaviour  the 
night  before.  But  I  said  nothing.  I  saw  how  the  wind 
blew.  And  it  says  something  for  Deny  that  he  was 
enough  ashamed  of  himself  to  try  and  make  out  that  I 
was  as  bad  as  he. 

"  I  won't  go  into  all  the  details  as  to  how  we  finally 
got  to  know  where  the  girl  was  to  be  found.  It  will 
be  sufficient  to  say,  that  Deny  gave  two  natives  plugs 
of  tobacco  and  promised  them  another  drink  from  his 
rum-flask  if  they'd  lead  us  to  the  den  where  the  girl 
resided.  For  I  must  tell  you  that  we  had  found  out 
by  the  merest  chance  that  the  girl  did  not  live  with 
her  parent,  but  dwelt  at  the  other  end  of  the  village, 
where  the  high  chiefs  resided. 

"  As  the  natives  led  us  across  the  cleared  village  space, 
we  wondered  what  the  girl  would  think  to  see  us  so 
eager  to  seek  her  presence.  At  last  we  stood  outside  a 
thatched  den,  just  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village. 

"  '  She  in  there,  Marama,  savvy?  ' 

"  In  a  moment  Deny  and  I  made  up  our  minds  and 
entered  the  hut.  The  first  thing  that  I  did  was  to  upset 
a  cradle  wherein  lay  two  whitish-looking  kiddies. 


YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER  307 

"'Look  like  damned  half-caste  kids/  said  Deny,  as 
we  cursed  and  made  a  swift  attempt  to  pick  them  up 
before  the  distracted  mother  appeared.  They  opened 
their  reddish  mouths  like  two  young  crows,  and  made 
terrific  caw-like  sounds.  Deny  put  his  hand  over  one's 
mouth ! 

"  Suddenly  we  felt  a  draught,  the  tappa-curtain  was 
flung  aside,  the  white  girl  stood  before  us,  her  eyes 
blazing  as  we  both  held  the  kids!  She  really  did  look 
like  a  wild  girl,  as  she  stood  there  before  us  with  her 
mouth  open,  in  deshabille,  an  old  torn  sulu  dangling  to 
her  thighs.  For  a  moment  I  felt  embarrassed  as  I  looked 
at  her  bare  bosom.  Then  I  swiftly  realized  that  she 
did  not  understand  the  novelty  of  the  sight, — a  girl  of 
our  race  dressed  like  that,  showing  so  much  of  what 
should  have  been  her  secret  toilet,  to  say  the  least. 

"  Perhaps  she  saw  the  romantic  light  in  Deny's  eyes 
as  she  stared  up  at  our  flushed  faces.  Anyway,  she 
cooled  down,  and  asked  us  into  her  homestead. 

"  Then  she  looked  up  at  us  in  a  startled  way,  and 
said,  '  You  be  killer ;  go  way !  go  way ! ' 

"  That  was  -the  first  thing  she  said,  as  we  got  out  of 
earshot  of  the  sly-looking  old  hags  who  were  leaning 
against  the  palms  smoking  cigarettes. 

"  '  We've  come  to  save  you ! — to  take  you  away  from 
this  village,'  whispered  Deny,  giving  her  a  ravishing 
look.  '  Take  you  away  to  another  country  where  the 
white  men  and  women  live, — understand  ? — savvy  ? '  con- 
tinued Deny,  as  the  girl  looked  up  and  simply  stared 
at  us. 

"  At  first  we  thought  it  might  be  some  haunting  re- 
membrance of  her  childhood  days  in  England  that  made 
her  stare  so.  It  may  have  been  so.  However,  the  only 
response  she  made  was  to  put  forth  her  hand  and  com- 
mence to  caress  the  pendant,  the  brass  compass,  that 


308  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

dangled  at  the  end  of  my  silver  watch  chain!  Then 
she  giggled  and  showed  us  her  babies ! 

"  '  Yours ! '  almost  yelled  Deny. 

"  The  scales  fell  from  our  eyes  when  we  learnt  from 
her  own  lips  that  those  pallid,  demon-like-looking  kids 
were  hers — twins  too! 

"  '  Where's  he  ? '  we  both  ejaculated  in  a  tense  whisper, 
as  we  looked  around. 

"  She  shook  her  head,  did  not  understand. 

"'The  old  man,  your  husband? — the  father  of  the 
kids  ? '  said  Deny,  trying  to  make  her  understand. 

"  Pointing  to  the  floor,  she  said,  *  He  go  under,  goodee 
job  tooer! ' 

"'Dead!'  was  Deny's  and  my  comment.  Nor  did 
we  shed  any  tears  over  the  dead  heathen's  demise,  I 
can  tell  you. 

"  There  she  stood  before  us,  innocent-looking  as  a 
child,  a  splendid  specimen  of  what  an  English  girl  was 
like  when  reared  up  as  a  savage.  Even  as  I  watched, 
I  thought  of  the  interest  she  would  create  in  the  souls 
of  those  who  went  in  for  anthropology. 

"  I  discerned  at  a  glance  that  she  had  the  instincts  of 
a  white  woman  the  world  over.  As  she  stared  at  us 
she  hastily  put  her  hand  up  to  her  hair  to  see  if  the 
hibiscus  blossoms  were  in  an  attractive  position.  As 
she  squatted  on  the  mat  and  boldly  looked  into  our  eyes, 
she  pulled  her  picturesque  raiment  down  over  the  curves 
of  her  knees.  '  That's  something  that  a  native  woman 
wouldn't  do,'  was  my  mental  comment.  That  one  little 
action  convinced  me  that  there  is  an  inherent  modesty 
in  women  of  the  white  races  that  is  not  conspicuous  in 
many  of  the  brown  races.  For,  how  did  she  know  that 
women  of  our  race  wore  long  dresses?  All  the  native 
women  about  her  wore  barely  anything  at  all !  Besides, 
there  was  the  swift,  instinctive  action  of  an  act  that  could 


YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER  309 

only  be  the  result  of  inherent  modesty.  Knowing  the 
chance  I  had  of  testing  the  difference  between  the  white 
and  the  brown  races,  I  went  through  all  sorts  of  artful 
dodges  to  find  out  the  various  shades  of  her  character. 
I  put  my  hand  out  in  a  caressing  way,  softly  touching 
her  fingers  so  that  she  might  be  assured  that  I  was 
there  only  out  of  friendship.  Deny  did  the  same. 

"  To  our  delight  she  repsonded  by  saying,  *  Yorana, 
Papalagi,'  and  then,  in  a  soft,  fawning,  cat-like  way, 
returned  the  caress,  touched  my  wrist,  looked  into  my 
eyes,  and  murmured,  '  Oh,  whi !  whi,  nicer/  alluding  to 
the  whiteness  of  my  flesh  just  up  under  my  coat-sleeve. 
Then,  in  a  really  fascinating  way,  she  admired  the 
smoothness  of  our  boyish  faces;  put  her  fingers  through 
my  golden  hair; — I  had  hair  then."  (He  was  bald  as 
a  badger  as  he  sat  there  telling  us  these  things.)  "  Then 
Deny  took  the  flask  from  his  pocket  and,  to  my  surprise, 
asked  her  to  take  a  nip  of  rum!  She  gave  one  sip,  and 
made  a  wry  face  as  she  spat  the  liquid  out. 

"  I  looked  into  her  eyes,  held  her  hand,  and  said : 

"  '  Wouldn't  you  like  to  leave  this  village  and  go  across 
the  seas  to  your  own  people,  see  the  big  cities,  large 
buildings?' 

"  She  only  stared  at  me.  I  saw  that  it  was  all  Greek 
to  her.  Then  I  tried  to  explain  civilization  to  her.  I  told 
her  that  women  wore  beautiful  silken  robes  to  the  feet, 
robes  that  were  adorned  with  flashing  gems.  Her  eyes 
sparkled  with  wonder  for  a  while.  She  seemed  to  show 
true  interest  only  when  I  described  English  life,  told 
of  the  comfortable,  cosy  homes,  the  hearth-fires  in  cold 
weather,  and  of  the  little  children.  Deny  looked  up  at 
me,  noticed  my  earnest  manner,  and  thought  I  was  mad. 
So  he  said  after.  Sanga  squatted  just  behind  us  the 
whole  time,  staring  at  the  girl  with  wonder  in  her  eyes, 
and  never  said  one  word. 


310  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

"  As  I  told  her  these  things,  I  watched  for  some  evi- 
dence of  a  desire  in  her  heart  to  come  with  us;  but  the 
only  effect  it  seemed  to  have  on  her  was  that  which  one 
notices  on  a  child  when  it  listens  to  a  fairy  story.  There 
was  something  infinitely  sad  about  it  all  as  she  sat  there 
— a  girl  of  our  race,  lost  to  the  world,  irreclaimable, 
doomed  to  live  on  in  that  hell  of  a  village, — a  girl  with 
natural  beauty  shining  from  her  soft,  almost  wistful- 
looking  eyes.  The  wind  blew  gently  through  the  door- 
way, the  palms  sighed  mournfully  on  the  mountain  slopes, 
and  it  seemed  that  the  very  zephyrs  caressed  her  with 
sorrow  as  they  touched  the  picturesque  robe  she  had  put 
on  since  we  had  arrived. 

"  I  can  never  tell  you  how  Deny  and  I  appealed  to 
that  girl,  beseeching  her  to  come  away  with  us.  For  a 
moment  she  gazed  at  us  as  though  in  grief,  then  she  put 
forth  her  hand  and  appealed  to  Deny  to  give  her  one 
of  his  coat  buttons.  In  a  moment  my  pal  had  ripped 
a  button  off  and  handed  it  to  her.  She  held  it  up  in 
the  ray  of  sunlight  that  trickled  through  the  doorway, 
and  gave  a  childish  cry  of  pleasure. 

"  '  Look  at  her  feet/  said  Deny. 

"  I  had  never  seen  such  pretty  feet  before.  The  nails 
were  like  pearls,  and,  through  the  foot  having  never  been 
cramped  up  in  boots,  the  toes  were  exquisitely  curved, 
the  lower  contours  running  up  and  finishing  at  the  ankles 
in  a  charming  way.  Deny  took  'the  liberty  of  tenderly 
holding  her  leg  up  so  that  I  might  admire  the  curves 
of  the  calf,  the  perfect  roundness  of  the  knee.  She  kept 
a  wary  eye  on  him:  I'm  sure  that  was  the  look  that  I 
noticed  in  her  eyes.  Then,  on  hearing  our  impassioned 
exclamations,  and  seeing  the  appreciative  glances  of  our 
eyes  over  the  beauty  of  her  shape,  she  gave  in;  vanity 
was  stronger  than  modesty.  Then  Deny  spoilt  it  all ;  as 
he  held  the  leg  in  a  graceful  position,  he  deliberately 


YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER  311 

kissed  the  knee !  That's  what  my  eyes  saw !  Deny  swore 
'that  it  was  a  mistake,  that  he  fell  forward.  But  I  knew 
Deny  well  enough,  and  never  before  saw  anything  so 
deliberate  in  the  way  of  impassioned  acts. 

"  From  that  moment  she  became  reserved  in  her  atti- 
tude and  manner.  But,  still,  I  noticed  that  her  eyes 
softly  gleamed  as  Deny  and  I  and  Sanga  crept  out  of  the 
door  to  answer  the  command  of  Yoraka.  It  was  nearly 
dusk  then,  and  we  had  to  be  in  Yoraka's  presence  by 
dark. 

"  It  was  quite  dark  when  we  again  stood  outside 
Yoraka's  palatial  hut,  hesitating  before  we  entered. 
Then,  seeing  no  way  out  of  it,  we  entered  that  home 
of  licentiousness.  All  the  hanging  coco-nut-oil  lamps 
were  ablaze  as  we  stood  there  once  more  in  the  presence 
of  Yoraka,  the  native  girls  all  staring  at  us.  I  think  that 
I  preferred  the  sight  of  (them  to  the  drunken  ribaldry  of 
that  British  heathen.  There  was  something  terrible  in 
his  gaze  as  he  looked  up  at  us.  I  saw  the  domineering 
gaze  of  savagery  staring  from  those  cold,  blue,  British 
eyes.  All  the  inherent  might  of  my  own  race — the  might 
that  had  overthrown  nation  after  nation,  conquered  the 
world,  making  all  the  primitive  tribes  suppliant  at  her 
Imperial  Feet — seemed  to  shine  forth  in  the  terrible 
glare  of  that  red-bearded  Britisher  as  he  stared  at  us 
with  sober  eyes!  By  the  dim  light  of  the  oil-lamps  I 
discerned  the  tattoo  that  marked  his  massive  chest  and 
shoulders.  It  seemed  impossible  that  he  was  a  white 
man  at  all,  so  villainous  did  he  look.  Then  he  com- 
menced to  ask  a  thousand  questions  as  to  what  we  wanted 
with  him.  We  told  him  we  didn't  want  anything  of  him. 
Deny  came  to  the  rescue  like  a  brick,  for  Yoraka  was  get- 
ting fierce;  he  handed  him  the  remainder  of  his  rum. 
In  a  moment  the  man  seemed  to  forget  his  suspicions; 
he  smacked  his  lips,  looked  up,  and  gripped  Deny's  hand. 


312  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

After  that  he  drank  more  toddy.  He  was  soon  drivelling 
drunk  again.  I  shall  never  forget  that  night  if  I  live 
to  be  a  thousand  years  old.  As  the  tribal  girls  waited 
on  him,  he  roared  forth  disgusting  songs — putting  words 
of  his  own  to  them — and  at  each  loathsome  epithet  spat 
up  in  the  faces  of  the  frightened  harem-women.  Looking 
up  into  my  face  he  chuckled  and  roared  out  uproariously, 
making  remarks  about  civilized  life. 

"  *  Go  back  ter  your  ole  Queen  on  the  Thames !  He ! 
he!  I'd  giver  'er 

"  'Ugh!  Ugh!  who'  thater  girl?  She  belonger  you? 
I  eater  better  girler  than  tthat  on  toast !  Savvy  ?  ' 

"  Still  I  did  not  gather  the  terrible  import  of  his  re- 
marks as  he  looked  up,  drivelling  spittle  from  betel-nut 
between  his  clenched  black  teeth,  and  pinched  pretty 
Sanga's  soft  arms! 

"' Comer  way!  Comer  way!  Master,  don't  your 
know  ? '  whispered  little  Sanga,  inclining  her  curly  head 
sideways  as  she  slightly  lifted  her  pretty  eyes,  giving  me 
a  meaning  look. 

"  But  still  Deny  stared  and  I  stared,  as  Yoraka 
grovelled  on  his  belly  and  made  loathsome  remarks  to  the 
women  around  him.  Once  more  he  sought  Deny's  con- 
versation, and  plied  him  with  that  vile  toddy  stuff.  The 
night  was  far  advanced  when  the  great  climax  came. 
Yoraka  was  poking  Deny  in  the  ribs,  and  Deny  was  nudg- 
ing Yoraka.  The  savage  Britisher's  brain  had  once  more 
become  reminiscent,  for  he  was  shouting  and  yelling  dis- 
gusting ribaldry  about  his  memories  of  London,  Fleet 
Street,  the  Strand,  and  Marble  Arch.  Then  he  seemed 
to  become  breathless  through  his  own  obscenity.  He 
drivelled  at  the  mouth,  his  head  swaying  like  an  imbecile 
as  he  lurched  forward  on  his  stomach.  Then,  leaning 
forward,  he  took  hold  of  Sanga's  little  robe,  looked  with 
some  terrible  meaning  into  her  eyes,  took  hold  of  her 


YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER  313 

arm's  soft,  semi-white  flesh  between  his  thumb  and  fore- 
finger— and  pinched  it  deliciously! 

"  His  hideous  mouth  was  emitting  spittle  from  between 
the  gaps  of  his  filthy  betel-nut-blackened  teeth.  I  dis- 
tinctly saw  him  give  a  fiendish,  hungry  leer  at  the  girl 
as  he  stroked  her  leg  and  said  something  very  un- 
guardedly about  *  Long  pig ! '  and  chuckled  '  Kai !  kai ! 
I  eater  nicer  girler ! '  He  was  looking  up  into  Deny's 
astonished  face  as  he  said  that.  Then  he  lifted  his 
drunken  eyes  to  my  comrade  and  said,  '  You  giver  girler 
me?  I  make  you  great  chief  here! ' 

" '  Heavens ! '  gasped  Deny,  as  he  looked  at  me. 
'Why,  he's  a  cannibal!' 

"  Before  I  knew,  or  even  realized  the  terror  of  the 
whole  business,  Deny  had  expressed  his  horror  of  that 
fiend's  remarks  in  a  most  forcible  way.  It  all  looked  like 
some  unreal  picture  of  horror  as  Yoraka  crouched  there, 
grovelling  on  his  stomach,  the  rows  of  coco-nut-oil  lamps 
sending  a  ghastly,  unreal  glare  over  his  face  and  on  the 
barbarian  furniture,  boxes,  ornamental  matting,  cala- 
bashes, and  human  skulls  that  hung  on  the  walls.  He 
was  paralyzed! — as  though  he'd  had  a  stroke  and  had 
died  with  his  mouth  and  eyes  still  half-open  with  aston- 
ishment. The  native  girls,  who  had  been  bringing  in 
platters  of  cooked  yams  and  gourds  of  toddy,  stood 
transfixed,  like  wonderful  life-like  statues  of  terra-cotta 
hue,  so  still  did  they  all  stand  there  in  the  dim  light, 
some  with  arms  still  outstretched,  one  leg  placed  for- 
ward, one  arm  uplifted,  their  eyes  glassy,  petrified  with 
astonishment — so  sudden  was  the  onslaught ! 

"  That  representative  of  a  British  criminal  in  savage 
'  state,'  rolled  his  eyes  thrice ;  he  seemed  to  strive  to 
believe  his  own  senses;  his  mouth  was  wide  open  with 
astonishment  and  pain,  revealing  his  sharp,  dirty  teeth, 
as  crash !  a  second  blow  knocked  them  down  his  throat ! 


314  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

"  '  Ugh !  Ugh ! '  came  like  vomited  sound  from  that 
devil's  entrails  as  Deny  stood  there  at  his  full  height, 
his  eyes  afire  with  rage  and  drink.  My  helmet  hat  was 
bashed  down  over  my  eyes  as  I  leapt  forward  to  stay 
Deny  from  quite  killing  our  host.  In  a  flash  I  saw  that 
Deny's  impulsiveness  would  place  us  at  the  mercy  of  the 
whole  tribe.  But  what  cared  old  Deny? — not  a  damn! 
He  proceeded  to  demolish  Yoraka's  palavana.  The  na- 
tive girls,  seeing  their  master  prostrated,  recovered  and 
bolted!  Catching  hold  of  the  central  post,  that  was  the 
mainstay  for  the  hut's  support,  Deny  tore  it  right  out 
of  the  ground — crash!  the  roof  had  fallen  on  the  top 
of  us! 

"  In  the  pandemonium  that  followed,  amid  the  wild 
yells  of  Yoraka,  the  screams  of  his  concubines  and  chil- 
dren, I  could  hardly  collect  my  senses.  Sanga  was  still 
trembling  beside  me,  was  clutching  my  hand.  We  were 
on  our  stomachs,  the  heavy  debris,  planks,  etc.,  nearly 
smothering  us. 

"  '  Comer,  Master ! '  murmured  Sanga,  as  she  tugged 
my  coat  and  wriggled  on.  By  some  wonderful  instinct 
she  found  a  pathway  through  that  terror-stricken  group 
of  clutching  figures,  all  huddled  in  mad  terror  to  get  out 
of  the  smothering  debris  into  the  open  air.  Outside  the 
night  was  pitch-black,  not  a  star  relieving  the  intense 
overhead  dark  as  I  peered  around,  calling  aloud  to  my 
comrade,  '  Deny !  Deny ! ' 

"  As  I  stood  'there,  hesitating,  for  I  could  not  rush  off 
into  the  forest  and  leave  a  pal  like  that,  I  felt  something 
brush  against  me,  like  the  rushing  of  a  wind.  It  was  a 
regiment  of  those  damned  cannibals.  They  had  rushed 
forth  from  their  huts  to  rescue  their  master,  the  White 
Roko,  from  the  murderous  hands  of  the  two  Papalagis. 
They  were  evidently  seeking  to  locate  the  exact  spot  of 
our  host's  late  homestead ! 


YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER  315 

"  'Comer  way,  Master !  They  killer  you ! '  said  little 
Sanga,  as  she  tugged  my  hand,  and  I  glared  round  in  the 
darkness,  envying  that  little  one's  all-seeing  eyes  in  the 
gloom.  I  felt  the  exultation  of  battle  seize  my  soul.  I 
no  longer  regretted  the  fact  that  Deny  had  pulled  down 
that  homestead  of  unbridled  lust  about  the  b canni- 
bal Englishman's  ears!  I  rushed  forward,  calling  for 
my  pal.  Suddenly  I  collided  with  the  soft,  naked  bodies 
of  those  who  were  seeking  Deny  and  myself.  I  heard 
Deny's  voice  just  by  me.  '  Thank  God  he's  all  right,' 
was  my  mental  comment.  Then,  to  my  astonishment,  I 
heard  Deny  roaring  forth  an  old  sea  chanty  at  the  top 
of  his  voice  as  he  clubbed  away  at  the  natives  in  the 
darkness !  '  O  for  Rio  Grande ! '  came  to  my  ears  as  I 
too  entered  the  fray,  and  wondered  if  the  whole  business 
was  some  nightmare.  My  strength  was  superhuman. 
For  I  tell  you  I  was  in  a  terrible  funk,  and  there's  nothing 
like  true,  unadulterated  funk  to  make  a  man  brave  as 
a  lion,  and  fight  splendidly  for  his  own  life! 

"  I  had  no  weapon  whatsoever  to  defend  myself  with. 
Deny  had  a  club,  I  know.  Feeling  a  mass  of  tangled 
arms  clutching  for  me  in  the  dark,  I  made  a  dive  and, 
by  good  luck,  caught  what  I  meant  to  use  as  a  club — it 
was  a  soft,  slippery,  nude  savage !  I  felt  the  bones  creak 
as  I  swung  that  living  weapon  round  and  round  and 
aimed  unseen  blows  at  the  bodies  of  the  savages 
who  tried  to  catch  hold  of  me  in  that  inky  dark- 
ness. 

"  '  Go  it,  pal ! '  yelled  Deny.  Crash !  came  the  sound 
of  his  falling  club,  then  a  groan ;  another  had  gone  under. 
Again  and  again  came  howls  of  pain  to  my  ears  as  the 
natives  fell  to  the  forest  floor  before  my  tremendous 
onslaught  as  I  wielded  that  soft,  bulky  weapon — a  weapon 
that  gave  terrified  shrieks  as  it  attempted  to  save  itself, 
for  the  poor  devil  made  frantic  clutches  at  the  bodies 


316  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

I  swung  him  towards  as  his  hands  tore  at  their  mops  of 
hair  in  terror. 

"  Then  Deny  came  to  my  assistance,  just  in  time  top. 
But  though  I'd  got  a  nasty  knock  on  the  head  and  nearly 
fell,  I  managed  to  follow  Deny  and  Sanga  as  they  called 
me.  Then  the  three  of  us  rushed  away  down  the  slopes. 
By  daybreak  we  were  miles  away  from  that  cursed  vil- 
lage. And  I  don't  think  we  stopped  more  than  an  hour 
to  rest  before  we  got  down  to  the  seaboard. 

"  When  we  arrived  back  in  Levuka  we  made  up  our 
minds  to  go  out  to  the  man-o'-war  boat  that  was  lying 
out  in  the  bay,  and  tell  them  about  Yoraka  and  his 
daughter  up  there  in  the  Kai  Tholos  village.  We  were 
determined  to  get  our  own  back  off  that  bloodthirsty 
Britisher.  We  decided  to  let  the  matter  slide  for  a  day 
or  so.  Deny  had  got  a  blow  on  the  back  of  the  head 
during  the  melee  and  wanted  to  sleep  for  a  day  or  so 
before  he  had  any  more  excitement. 

"  It  was  during  this  interval  that  that  happened  which 
is  history  now.  It  was  like  this.  Some  sailors  from  a 
man-o'-war — three,  I  think — had  gone  off  up  in  the  moun- 
tains on  a  spree.  They  were  never  heard  of  again.  So 
Commander  Goodenough,  of  the  British  man-o'-war  lying 
off  Levuka,  sent  a  crew  of  Jack  Tars  up  to  the  tribal 
villages  of  the  mountains  to  give  them  a  lesson  and  see 
if  they  could  hear  anything  of  the  missing  men.  They 
blew  the  Kai  Tholos  villages  to  smithereens!  And  it  is 
common  knowledge  amongst  the  missionaries  and  traders 
to  this  day  that,  when  they  searched  amongst  the  debris, 
to  see  if  they  could  find  any  trace  of  their  comrades, 
they  came  across  the  body  of  a  white  girl,  clad  in  bar- 
barian costume  and  riddled  with  bullets.  Just  by  her 
side  was  the  body  of  a  white  man,  clad  in  a  sulu  gown. 
He  was  tattooed  and  sunburnt,  but  there  was  no  mistake 
about  his  being  a  white  man.  They  buried  them  both  up 


YORAKA'S  DAUGHTER  317 

there  in  the  mountains,  and  put  a  cross  on  the  girl's 
grave;  no  name,  just  the  date  of  the  day  when  they  had 
found  her.  Then  they  buried  the  man  by  her  side,  and, 
as  he  was  a  Britisher,  they  sounded  the  Last  Post  and 
fired  a  volley  over  his  grave.  And  Deny  wrapped  him 
up  in  the  Union  Jack ! " 

"Well,  now!  if  that's  not  the  irony  of  fate,  and  the 
way  of  this  world  all  over!"  was  all  I  could  mutter, 

as  G knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  and  finished 

his  story,  took  his  flute  from  his  pocket,  and  began  to 
warble  sweetly,  "  Scenes  that  are  brightest." 

G was  a  kind  of  hero  to  O'Hara  and  myself  after 

that.  We  followed  him  about,  and  felt  the  glamour  of 
romance  shine  whenever  we  stood  in  his  remarkable 
presence.  I  think  it  was  the  very  nexjt  day  that  he  took 
us  down  the  river,  then  across  country  to  a  native  village, 
and  introduced  us  both  to  a  fine-looking,  native  woman. 

She  treated  us  in  good  style  when  G told  her  that 

we  were  his  friends.  I  noiticed  that  she  looked  up  into 
his  eyes  as  though  she  were  some  sister  of  his. 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  I  ventured  to  ask  him  at  last. 

"  It's  her, — the  kid  we  took  up  into  the  Kai  Tholos 
mountains  that  time, — little  Sanga,"  he  replied. 


CHAPTER  XVII.  SOOGY,  CHILD  OF  POETRY 

Poetry's  Legitimate  Child — Music's  Fairyland — A  Civi- 
lized Old  Man  of  the  Sea — A  Clerical  Hat  is  the  Symbol 
of  Modern  Religion. 

TT  AD  it  not  been  for  men  like  D and  many  other 

•*•  •••  striking  personalities  who  enlivened  the  Organiza- 
tion, we  should  have  cleared  out  of  it  sooner  than  we  did. 
We  were  considerably  in  debt  to  the  host  of  that  Sailors' 
Home,  too.  There  were  no  certified  bailiffs  in  the  South 
Seas,  but  if  one's  account  was  overdue,  credit  was  taken 
out  of  the  debtor  in  a  novel  manner.  Bones  discovered 
that  one  of  his  customers  owed  him  about  fifty  dollars 
for  board. 

"  Goying  ter  pye  up?  "  said  he  laconically. 

"  Hain't  gotter  cent  ter  bless  meself  with  till  I  gets 
an  adwance  note,"  replied  the  stranded  one.  There  was 
no  further  parley  on  the  subject.  Bones  simply  caught 
the  culprit  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  placed  one  knee  in 
the  middle  of  his  back,  and  then,  crash!  sent  the  un- 
fortunate devil  through  the  South  Sea  bankruptcy  court 
at  the  end  of  his  boot — right  through  the  open  door — 
bang!  on  to  the  sward.  And  the  discharged  bankrupt, 
out  of  debt,  went  his  way,  unworried,  free  from  all  his 
late  liabilities..  Once  or  twice  there  was  a  fight  when 
the  members  took  sides  on  behalf  of  someone  who  could 
not  pay  his  way;  hats,  rum  mugs,  and  tin  pots  would 
fly  about,  but  it  was  soon  all  over.  They  would  bind 
up  each  other's  wounds,  shake  hands  all  round,  and  end 
up  in  a  tremendous  drinking  bout.  Sometimes  highly 
cultured  men  would  step  out  of  the  great  unknown  into 

318 


SOOGY,  CHILD  OF  POETRY        319 

that  shanty's  door — actors,  musicians,  poets,  and  sad- 
looking  literary  men,  who  would  imbibe  rum  and  prove 
highly  entertaining.  Some  had  fine  voices,  others  recited 
Hamlet,  or  made  the  place  hum  with  laughter  ere  they 
drank  up,  clinked  their  glass  in  some  toast,  and  then,  to 
the  cry  of  "  God  speed,"  once  more  departed  out  into  the 
great  unknown. 

O'Hara  and  I  would  go  wandering  through  the  forests, 
visiting  the  various  tribal  villages  by  the  coffee  planta- 
tions. On  these  wanderings  we  were  accompanied  by 
our  faithful  little  bodyguard,  Soogy,  a  little  native  half- 
caste  boy.  He  was  a  mystical  little  beggar,  not  only  in 
his  ways  but  in  his  origin.  No  one  knew  where  he  came 
from. 

"You  no  father?    No  mother,  Soogy?" 

He  shook  his  curly  head  and  said :  "  No ;  me  come 
down,  dropper  from  sky !  " 

He  had  beautiful  eyes,  and  by  the  paleness  of  his  com- 
plexion one  easily  concluded  that  he  had  European  blood 
in  his  veins.  He  was  about  eight  years  old.  Whenever 
I  played  the  violin  he  would  at  once  put  his  little  chin 

on  his  knees  and  commence  singing.  Even  G ,  who 

had  had  a  lot  to  do  with  native  youngsters,  said  that 
Soogy  was  a  wonder.  I  had  no  doubt  at  all  that  the 
child  was  a  genius.  His  mother  must  have  lived  in  a 
cave  within  sound  of  the  seas  just  before  he  was  born, 
for  music  was  alive  in  his  soul.  His  brain  was  splashed 
over  with  moonlight,  there  was  no  doubt  about  that. 

"  Where  did  you  learn  that  melody,  Soogy?  "  I'd  say, 
when  he  suddenly  burst  forth  and  sang  some  sweet 
strain  with  a  lingering,  haunting  note  of  sadness  running 
through  it.  He  would  simply  look  up,  shake  his  curly 
head,  and  wonder  what  I  meant  by  asking  him  where 
his  little  brain  learned  its  own  mysterious  music  from. 

"  Looks  older  than  he  is,"  said  O'Hara.     "  Got  eyes 


320  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

like  a  blessed  girl,"  my  pal  continued,  as  Soogy  fondled 
my  hand  and  stared  up  into  my  face,  a  weird  look  in 
his  pretty  eyes.  I  could  not  make  it  out;  but  when  that 
kiddie  came  up  to  me  in  the  forest,  or  crept  into  my 
hut-room,  an  old  broken-down  shack  near  the  river,  the 
world  would  change,  the  sun  shine  with  a  mysterious 
shadowy  light,  a  kind  of  poetic  atmosphere  pervading 
the  deep  gloom  of  the  woods.  I  was  not  surprised  when 
O'Hara  said: 

"  Begorra,  pal,  I  wish  that  kiddie  would  keep  away ; 
he's  like  some  little  beggar  of  a  ghost  hanging  around. 
I'm  sure  he'll  bring  us  bad  luck." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool.  How  can  a  little  child  influence 
our  ways  or  alter  what  must  happen  to-morrow?"  I 
replied,  as  the  child  noticed  the  angry  look  in  my  com- 
rade's eyes,  and  looked  up  to  see  if  I  too  wanted  him 
to  go  away. 

I  didn't  send  him  away,  though.  To  tell  the  truth, 
I  came  under  the  mystic  spell  of  that  weird  child  of  the 
forest.  Sometimes  I'd  go  out  of  earshot  of  all  the  world, 
accompanied  by  that  mysterious  little  beggar,  and,  under 
the  banyans  by  the  lagoon,  as  fireflies  danced  in  the 
bamboos,  I'd  play  the  violin  while  he  danced.  Even 
the  cockatoos,  as  they  cried  out,  "  Ka  ka — ka  to  wooh ! 
ka!  ka!  ka!  to  wooh!"  seemed  to  have  come  under 
the  influence  of  Soogy 's  songs.  Somehow,  the  thought 
of  the  world  beyond  the  solitude  of  that  forest  seemed  to 
fall  away;  I  would  half  imagine  that  Soogy  and  I  sat 
side  by  side  in  some  mossy  fairy-wood  of  a  world  far 
beyond  the  stars.  We  would  seem  to  be  two  mighty 
maestros  of  heathenland,  both  of  us  enthroned  on  the 
highest  pinnacles  of  fame  as  I  sat  there,  that  weird  little 
kiddie  singing  wondrous  melodies  and  dancing.  It  was 
nothing  strange  to  me  when  the  Old-Man-Frog  looked 
out  of  the  moonlit  marsh  flowers  in  surprise,  opened  its 


SOOGY,  CHILD  OF  POETRY   321 

weird-slit  mouth,  and  changed  a  wonderful  accompani- 
ment in  perfect'  tempo  as  Soogy  danced.  Then  some 
strange  thing  with  a  green,  semi-human  face  would  peep 
out  of  the  vatu  weeds  and  clang  its  tiny  cymbals. 

Knowing  that  the  commonplace  conception  of  reality 
does  not  exist  at  all,  and  that  we  mortals  only  see  a 
nose,  a  mouth,  a  glance  of  the  eyes — indeed,  the  Universe 
itself — in  the  relation  that  it  assumes  by  contact  with 
one's  inner  self,  I  felt  no  wonder  as  Soogy  danced  be- 
neath the  moonlit  palms,  no  Soogy  at  all,  but  a  some- 
thing weirdly  beautiful  dancing  as  I  played  the  violin 
in  the  shadowland  of  my  own  mad  eyes,  a  something 
that  looked  to  me  like  two  fallen  stars  fixed  in  a  wonder- 
ful little  receptacle  called  a  skull  poised  on  swaying,  dusky 
limbs,  and  possessing  a  sweet-voiced  tongue. 

The  very  forest  trees  became  etherealized  to  my  eyes 
as  their  big  heads  moved  and  sighed  to  'the  soughing 
night  winds,  humming  out  half-forgotten  memories  of 
cherished  things.  And  when  those  old  trees  tenderly 
waved  their  arms  over  the  weird  child,  then  took  part- 
ners, and  commenced  to  waltz  slowly,  I  didn't  wonder 
much;  I  still  played  on,  wailing  forth  the  magical  melo- 
dies that  Soogy  sang  to  my  listening  ears.  It  was  clear 
enough  that  the  child  had  never  been  taught  dancing 
in  any  mortal  school,  for,  as  his  small  limbs  moved  in 
rhythmical  motion,  they  swerved  not  one  bit  from  the 
tempo  of  the  swaying  forest  flowers  as  the  shifting  fingers 
of  the  zephyrs  tossed  them  gently  one  way,  and  then 
softly  the  other  way.  And  my  chagrin  was  complete 
when  I  realized  that  my  cultured  ear  served  only  to 
empower  me  with  discernment  enough  to  know  that,  as 
a  conductor  of  the  most  subtle  movements  in  that  great 
orchestra  of  the  forest-night  and  mighty,  waltzing  trees, 
I  was  simply  nowhere  where  that  conductor,  an  Old-Man- 
Frog,  was  concerned,  as,  with  his  wonderful  clappers 


322  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

going  "  Click-er-tee-clack !  currh !  currh !  clack-er  to- 
clack,"  he  got  the  most  marvellous,  subtle  musical  effects 
from  that  wonderful  ensemble.  The  pathos  of  the  tiny 
streamlet's  voice  as  it  hurried  by  us,  then  ran  with  fright 
under  the  forest  trees  and  leapt  into  the  sea,  convinced  me 
that  I  was  beautifully  mad — as  mad  as  I  am  now  deadly 
sane.  It  may  have  been  some  inherited  madness,  or 
possibly  Soogy  had  some  magnetic  influence  over  me.  I 
know  not  which  it  was.  But  I  do  know  that,  sometimes 
when  I  lay  half  asleep  under  the  ndrala  trees  of  the 
moonlit  forest,  he  would  sit  singing  wonderful  songs  for 
my  half-sleeping  ears — songs  that  would  seem  to  drift 
my  life  across  into  unremembered  ages  tin  I  became  one 
with  the  stars  and  the  music  of  the  infinite.  The  very 
caves  along  the  shore  of  my  bedroom  floor  seemed  to 
sing  out  some  old  sorrow  as  he  came,  night  after  night, 
creeping  out  of  the  forest  like  some  little  phantom  child, 
to  make  my  mossy  bed ! 

Such  a  one  was  Soogy.  I  never  dreamed  that  such 
sorrow  could  come  to  one  through  knowing  a  little  child 
— sorrow  that  made  my  heart  ache  for  many  a  day.  The 
whole  trouble  came  about  through  an  old  man  suddenly 
arriving  at  the  Organization  just  when  O'Hara  and  I 
had  determined  to  get  a  ship  and  clear  out  for  Nuka 
Hiva.  We  were  both  tired  out,  had  been  sauntering 
about  amongst  the  villages,  and  were  glad  enough  to 
get  back  to  the  Organization's  hospitable  roof;  but,  just 
as  we  were  approaching  the  door,  we  heard  a  terrible 
row  in  progress.  It  appeared  that  someone  had  robbed 
the  aforesaid  old  man  of  his  valuable  pocketbook.  There 
he  stood,  by  the  wide-open  door,  waving  his  hands  in 
despair,  shouting  out: 

"  I'll  give  a  hundred  pounds  to  the  one  who  finds  my 
pocketbook." 

He  was  a  strange-looking  old  fellow.     He  wore  a 


SOOGY,  CHILD  OF  POETRY   323 

clerical  hat,  a  stiff,  high  collar,  and  grey  side-whiskers; 
and  he  was  purple  to  the  forehead  as  he  stood  there  just 
beneath  the  low-roof  saloon,  shouting: 

"  Where's  my  pocketbook?  " 

O'Hara  and  I  stared  with  astonishment  to  see  that 
old  gent,  so  fashionably  attired,  a  bullet  hole  in  his  hat, 
standing  up  for  himself,  defiantly  facing  the  whole 
damned  crew  of  sun-tanned,  villainous-looking  men  as 
they  thrust  their  faces,  chins,  and  fists  out  of  the  door, 
and  looked  scornfully  at  the  grand  old  man!  Suddenly 
Tanner  Bolt,  who  had  his  nose  missing  and  had  a  face 
like  a  diseased  Chinaman,  stepped  forward  and  knocked 
the  old  fellow's  hat  off.  O'Hara  and  I,  not  liking  such 
a  cowardly  act,  immediately  sided  with  the  new-comer, 
who  had  sought  protection  from  justice  in  that  forest 
hermitage.  Bones  regarded  O'Hara  and  me  rather 
fiercely  for  a  moment,  then,  whipping  his  revolver  out, 
turned  to  the  men  and  roared: 

"  I'll  shoot  the  first  God-damned  rogue  who  touches 
any  of  'em." 

Then  the  hullabaloo  subsided.  After  that  O'Hara  and 

I  made  tracks  outside,  as  G went  in  to  have  his 

nap  on  the  saloon  settee.  The  old  gent  followed  us 
outside. 

"  A  lot  of  rogues  and  thieves,  that's  what  they  are," 
he  almost  squeaked,  as  he  shook  his  fist  at  the  half-hidden 
den,  his  false  teeth  dropping  on  the  sward,  so  violent 
was  his  rage  as  he  shook  from  head  to  feet. 

"  Do  you  chaps  belong  to  them?"  said  he,  as  he  sur- 
veyed us  critically. 

"No,  thank  you!" 

The  emphatic  note  of  my  reply  seemed  to  change  the 
old  man's  manner  immediately,  and  make  him  glad  to 
give  that  confidence  that  so  relieves  mortals  when  they 
have  the  world  against  them. 


324  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

"  A  man  enticed  me  up  here  from  S ,  telling  me 

that  I  could  wait  here  in  comfort  till  the  'Frisco  boat 

arrived  at  S .     I  want  to  get  to  San  Francisco;  got 

business  there,"  he  hurriedly  added,  as  he  readjusted  his 
pince-nez. 

It  was  a  bit  of  an  effort  for  us  to  keep  serious-looking 
and  hide  the  fact  that  we  well  knew  that  'Frisco  was  the 
much-sought  high  road  to  the  No-Extradition  Ports. 

"  Get  me  out  of  this  hole  and  I'll  give  you  a  present 
of  fifty  pounds,"  said  the  old  fellow,  as  he  gripped  my 
hand  and  peered  about  in  a  neurotic  manner. 

O'Hara  and  I  looked  into  one  another's  eyes.  "  Fifty 
pounds !  "  I  heard  O'Hara's  soul  gasp  as  mine  re-echoed 
it.  We  had  been  on  long  voyages,  working  like  slaves 
for  a  mere  pittance  too! 

"  Don't  say  a  word  to  anyone.  I  can  get  you  away 
from  here  safely,"  said  O'Hara,  giving  him  a  quiet  wink 
as  Bones  came  out  of  the  Organization  door. 

"  Here's  yer  d pocketbook,"  said  he,  as  he  threw 

something  in  the  direction  of  the  old  gent. 

That  aged,  fugitive  bank-manager  nearly  fell  forward 
on  to  his  knees  in  thanksgiving  when  he  opened  the 
pocketbook  and  discovered  his  papers  intact. 

As  Soogy  came  rushing  out  of  the  forest  and  com- 
menced to  gambol  by  us,  Bones  called  the  old  man,  took 
him  under  the  breadfruits,  and  whispered  to  him.  We 
saw  the  old  gent  take  Bones'  hand  impulsively  in  his 
own  and  vigorously  shake  it.  Bones  had  some  sense  of 
honour,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  had  told  the  new- 
comer that  he  would  see  that  he  was  not  molested  by  the 
members  of  the  shanty  again. 

It  was  wonderful  how  everything  quieted  down  aftei 
that  bit  of  excitement.  The  old  gent  imbibed  a  coi 
siderable  amount  of  whisky,  told  the  guilty  men  that  he 
forgave  them,  shook  their  hands  across  the  long  bench- 


SOOGY,  CHILD  OF  POETRY   325 

table,  and  drank  their  health.  The  humour  of  it  all 
even  struck  those  seasoned  criminals.  I  saw  them  grin 
from  ear  to  ear.  It  was  a  sight  to  see  those  rows  of 
fierce,  bearded  faces  as  they  sat  there,  clad  in  their  red 
shirts  and  belted  pants,  the  whole  scene  dimly  lit  up 
by  the  swinging  candles  that  hung  in  the  empty  gin 
bottles  just  overhead,  every  sinful  eye  alert  as  the  old 
man  shook  his  finger. 

That  old  gent's  main  weakness  was  whisky  and  rum. 
Most  probably  it  was  the  main  cause  of  his  taking  the 
desperate  chance  that  brought  him  as  a  fugitive  from 
justice  across  the  seas.  He  sang  a  song  to  those  rough 
men;  his  voice  was  strangely  mellow  and  sweet,  be- 
coming pathetic  as  the  fumes  got  thicker  in  his  sinful 
head — who  knows  what  thoughts  flashed  through  his 
drunken  dreams? 

Tanner  Bolt,  Lively  Humper,  and  Jimmy  Scratch 
played  their  mouth-organs  and  banjos  as  the  wild  chorus 
of  those  men  shook  the  shanty.  Then  Soogy  came  in 
and  did  a  dance  on  the  table.  I  noticed  that  even  those 
drunken  men  seemed  to  come  under  the  spell  of,  that 
kid's  song  and  dance.  As  for  the  old  gent,  he  kept 
taking  out  his  watch,  keying  ?t  up,  and  staring  with  his 
mouth  open  as  he  watched  the  child's  bright  eyes  and  his 
wonderful  dancing.  I  think  the  old  man  was  trying 
to  recall  his  senses,  wondering  who  he  was,  what  he 
was  doing  there  with  those  wild-looking  men  as  they 
encored  that  mysterious  child.  Then  his  besotted  head 
fell  forward  and  he  dropped  off  asleep.  And  when  I 
think  of  all  that  happened  through  him,  how  the  innocent 
were  punished  for  the  sins  of  the  guilty,  I  wish  that  he 
had  never  awakened  again.  But  there,  I  mustn't  be  too 
hard  on  him;  he  never  made  himself,  and  he  suffered  too. 


CHAPTER  XVIII.     RETROSPECT 

The  Modern  Old  Man  of  the  Sea— Fifty  Pounds!— A 
Human  Octopus — Adrift  at  Sea — Sorrow — Saved — In 
Tonga — Our  Old  Man's  last  Hiding-place — Retrospect. 

THE  perspective  of  things  as  seen  after  a  lapse  of 
years  seems  gifted  with  a  visionary  light  that  has 
no  relation  to  the  normal  outlook  of  the  intellect.  The 
most  commonplace  objects  and  incidents,  when  seen  and 
thought  over  in  the  pale  light  of  memory,  become  tinged 
with  that  indefinable  glamour,  that  something  which  men 
call  poetry.  A  wind-blown  ship  far  at  sea  with  trailing 
spars  and  torn  sails  beating  its  way  into  the  sunset;  a 
bird  travelling  silently  across  a  foreign  tropic  sky;  a 
wild  girl  singing  by  a  lagoon;  a  dead  tree  tossing  its 
arms  on  a  windy  hill;  an  old  gentleman  with  a  little 
clerical  hat  bashed  over  his  eyes;  the  remembrance  of  a 
tiny,  golden-eyed  girl,  with  a  bit  of  blue  ribbon  in  her  hair 
as  she  sprang  into  your  farewell  arms  when  you  said 
good-bye  and  went  off,  a  boy,  on  your  first  voyage  to 
sea — I  say,  all  these  things  seem  to  be  the  landmarks, 
the  promontories  of  the  shores  one  has  hugged  as  one 
sailed  across  the  wild  seas  of  life. 

And,  in  looking  back,  that  old  gent  of  the  South  Sea 
Organization  seems  to  stand  out,  not  so  much  as  a 
wicked,  eccentric  individual,  as  he  does  of  a  type  that 
represents  nine-tenths  of  the  men  whom  one  is  doomed 
to  knock  up  against  in  one's  pilgrimage  along  this  shore 
of  hope  and  sudden  chills,  wrecks,  and  buffeted  dreams. 

I  know  that  that  old  man  came  to  us  in  the  guise  of  a 
benefactor  who  would  bestow  wealth  on  O'Hara  and  on 

326 


RETROSPECT  327 

me,  whereas  he  turned  out  to  be  a  Nemesis  wrapt  up 
in  the  vilest  disguise,  a  Nemesis  who  seemed  to  take  some 
vindictive  delight  in  the  frailties  of  youth,  and  was  guilty 
of  unwarrantable  cruelty  to  a  child's  innocence.  I  have 
sometimes  thought  that  neither  he,  nor  the  Organization 
itself,  ever  existed  in  this  world  as  men  know  things  to 
exist;  that  I  once  lived  in  a  phantasmagorial  world  of 
ghostly  sunlight  and  shadow  that  was  haunted  by  an 
aged  man  who  wore  side  whiskers,  clung  to  my  back 
like  an  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  and  successfully  throttled 
my  faith  in  supreme  goodness.  It  was  our  lack  of  funds 
and  the  old  man's  abundant  wealth  that  brought  the  whole 
business  about.  And,  though  I  know  that  the  lack  of 
funds  on  the  one  side  and  an  abundance  of  funds  on 
the  other  side  has  brought  about  the  direst  disasters  be- 
neath the  sun,  still,  I  feel  that  the  sorrow  that  came  to 
us  through  that  old  fellow  is  worth  recording. 

I  think  it  was  the  very  next  day  that  O'Hara  and  I 
saw  our  chance  of  luring  the  old  gentleman  away  from 
the  Organization  to  see  if  he  was  really  in  earnest  about 
that  fifty  pounds  he  said  he  would  give  to  the  first  one 
who  got  him  safely  away.  In  the  little  that  we  had  seen 
of  him  we  observed  that  he  was  weak  where  native  girls 
and  dancing-women  were  concerned.  When  O'Hara  had 
acquainted  him  with  the  fact  that  there  was  a  great 
tribal-dance  on  down  in  the  village  of  Takarora,  that 
the  chiefs  were  going  to  pow-wow  and  the  meke-girls  eat 
fire  and  dance,  he  took  hold  of  our  hands,  and  begged 
us  to  take  him  to  see  the  sight. 

"  I've  read  a  bit  about  these  people  in  books,  but,  dear 
boys,  I'd  really  like  to  see  the  grandeur  of  primitive  life 
in  the  natural  state."  So  spake  that  old  man.  Then  off 
we  went,  with  the  old  gent  in  our  company,  down  the 
forest  track. 

"  I  never  did  see  a  place  like  this,"  said  O'Hara,  as  we 


328  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

both  gave  a  startled  jump — two  dusky,  faun-like  crea- 
tures had  suddenly  peered  through  the  tasi-ferns  and 
exotic  convolvulus  festoons,  and,  seeing  our  white  faces, 
had  given  a  scream  and  sped  off  to  their  homestead  in 
the  pagan  village.  The  old  gentleman  placed  his  hand 
on  his  heart,  took  a  swill  from  his  brandy-flask,  and 
said  it  was  enough  to  give  one  syncope  to  live  in  such 
a  blasted  heathenland.  Then  he  reshaped  his  clerical  hat, 
that  had  been  bashed  in  by  a  banyan  bough,  and  once 
more  followed  us  through  the  interminable  growth  of 
camphor,  sago-palm,  and  all  that  mysterious  assemblage 
of  twisting  trunks  and  vines  that  nature  fashions  where 
the  sunlight  burns  with  fiery  heat. 

When  we  got  to  the  native  village  the  girls,  clad  in 
decorative  festival  costume,  were  dancing  away  in  full 
swing.  On  the  forum-lecture-stump  that  faced  the  village 
green  stood  some  pagan  philosopher,  spouting  for  all  he 
was  worth  about  the  new  edict  passed  by  the  mission- 
aries— prohibition  of  rum-selling  on  Sundays. 

"What's  he  saying,  Soogy?"  said  I,  as  that  haunting 
kiddie  rushed  up  to  us,  for  we  never  could  get  rid  of  him. 
Then  Soogy  told  me,  in  pigeon  English,  that  the  old 
pagan  chief  was  shouting: 

"  Down  with  the  brown  'man's  burden !  Down  with 
the  cursed  white  man  wrapped  in  clothes !  " 

I  must  admit  he  looked  a  nasty  old  heathen  as  he  put 
forth  his  dark  chin,  lifted  his  face  to  the  forest  roof,  and 
called  on  the  old  heathen  gods  to  hear  the  prayers  of  their 
faithful  child.  When  he  had  finished  he  took  a  huge 
nip  from  the  kava  calabash,  and  the  native  girls  com- 
menced to  give  a  fascinating  two-step  whilst  the  next 
chief  oiled  his  hair  and  prepared  for  a  speech. 

"  Now's  your  chance !  "  said  I  to  O'Hara,  for  the  old 
gentleman  seemed  in  the  most  convivial  of  moods  as  he 
stared  at  the  dancing  maids.  I  confess  that  I  was  not 


RETROSPECT  329 

good  at  giving  a  hint  to  a  man  who  had  promised  fifty 
pounds  if  a  certain  thing  was  done  for  him  and  had 
apparently  forgotten  all  about  his  promise.  As  O'Hara 
sidled  up  to  the  old  gentleman's  side,  I  remained  within 
comfortable  earshot. 

"  Hard  times  these,"  said  my  pal,  as  he  looked  first 
towards  the  old  man  and  then  towards  the  dancers.  Still 
the  old  fellow  stared  in  a  vacant  way,  fingered  and  re- 
adjusted his  pince-nez  as  the  stout  chief  ess  did  a  most 
peculiar  somersault  while  performing  the  heathen  tango. 
O'Hara  got  desperate;  it  got  on  his  mettle  to  be  ignored 
like  that.  He  sidled  up  a  little  closer  to  the  old  man, 
and  I  distinctly  heard  him  say,  as  he  stared  in  an  absent- 
minded  way  in  front  of  himself:  "Hard  times  these; 
wish  there  was  a  chance  of  getting  fifty  pounds,  some- 
how!" 

It  wanted  some  pluck  to  give  a  hint  like  that,  I  can  tell 
you.  The  old  fellow  had  a  freezing  way  with  him  too. 
Polish  does  hang  on  one  when  one  is  born  where  the 
missing  bank-managers  hail  from.  Yet  O'Hara  did  the 
trick;  for  the  old  fellow  stared  on  for  a  long  time  as 
though  he'd  not  heard  a  word,  then  he  turned  quietly 
to  my  comrade  and  said :  "  I  suppose  you  really  could 
get  me  safely  away  to  Lakemba,  so  that  I  could  catch 
the  next  boat?" 

O'Hara  at  once  unfolded  part  of  his  scheme  to  the  old 
chap,  who  seemed  mighty  pleased  at  the  way  O'Hara 
presented  the  matter  to  him.  The  scheme  was  that  we 
should  hire  one  of  the  large,  full  outrigger-canoes  from 
the  natives,  and  paddle  the  old  man  across  the  mile  or  so 
of  ocean  that  separated  us  from  Lakemba.  We  happened 
to  know  that  at  Lakemba  there  was  a  schooner  due  to 
sail  for  Honolulu,  and  the  old  fellow  knew  as  well  as  we 
that  it  was  an  easy  matter  to  get  a  boat  from  Honolulu 
to  San  Francisco.  So  the  matter  was  arranged. 


330  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

Then  O'Hara  went  off  to  the  shore  village,  made  all 
his  plans,  hired  a  large  outrigger-canoe  that  could  hold 
twenty  warriors,  and  decided  that  at  the  first  opportunity 
we  should  clear  out  with  the  old  man,  for  we  thought 
that  we  could  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone  and  get  away 
to  Honolulu  in  the  same  schooner.  But  since  man  pro- 
poses and  God  disposes,  nothing  came  off  as  arranged, 
excepting  that  we  did  succeed  in  getting  away  from  that 
place.  The  old  man  seemed  as  pleased  as  Punch  after 
that  scheme  had  been  so  rosily  presented  to  him.  When 
we  got  back  to  the  shanty  we  discovered  that  the  old 
gentleman  had  presented  each  member  with  a  five-pound 
note,  and  that  they  were  all  drinking  his  health  from 
the  large  barrel  of  rum  he  had  specially  purchased  for 
them.  They  all  put  out  their  horny  hands  and  one  after 
the  other  gripped  his  hand,  looking  quite  affected  as  he 
called  them  "  My  dear  sons,"  and  ordered  the  native  girls 
to  serve  out  the  rum.  I  saw  his  old  eyes  shine  as  he 
looked  into  their  wicked  faces.  They  were  not  all  vil- 
lainous-looking ;  some  were  as  honest  as  the  sunlight,  were 
castaway  sailormen,  or  traders  who  had  arrived  at  that 
Organization  as  bona  fide  travellers  who  would  rest  there 
a  while. 

A  special  concert  was  given  on  the  old  chap's  behalf 
that  night.  The  native  women  from  Tambu-tambu  came 
in  and  danced  on  the  saloon  pae-pae.  Oaths  and  wild 
reminiscences  were  in  full  swing.  The  old  gentleman 
became  loquacious,  sat  with  lifted  finger  telling  Billy 
Bode  a  naughty  story,  and  everyone  listened  with  deep 
respect.  For  those  wild  men  instinctively  felt  that  the 
old  fellow  was  an  oasis  in  the  desert  for  them.  He  had 
promised  them  twenty  pounds  apiece  and  another  barrel 
of  the  best  rum  ere  he  left  the  Organization's  roof,  con- 
sequently his  interest  and  safety  were  their  interest  and 


RETROSPECT  331 

safety,  and  when  suddenly  a  tremendous  crash  came  at 
the  Organization's  front  door,  they  rose  en  masse!  In 
a  flash  they  saw  the  promised  rum  and  "  twenty  pounds 
apiece  "  in  danger.  In  a  moment  they  were  on  the  de- 
fensive. Piff!  the  packs  of  half-shuffled  cards  dropped 
on  the  table  bench;  puff!  went  forty  bearded-lips,  and 
out  went  forty  tallow  candles — candles  that  were  sus- 
pended from  the  low  roof  in  gin  bottles.  That  old  gent 
must  have  thought  a  human  octopus  with  ten  thousand 
arms  and  legs  had  seized  him !  Every  "  man  jack  "  of 
them  had  made  a  grab  at  him  in  the  darkness — crash! 
down  went  the  vast  lid  of  the  emergency  barrel;  they 
had  lifted  him  bodily  to  the  roof,  and  then,  with  a  mighty 
thrust,  so  that  he  was  sure  to  fit  in  (for  he  was  stout) 
they  had  crashed  him  into  that  gigantic  tub! 

Someone  opened  the  door  and  let  the  moonlight  in. 
It  gleamed  across  the  stubbily  whiskered,  wild-looking 
faces  of  the  men  of  the  shanty,  faces  flushed  with  drink 
and  the  thought  that  the  prisoner  in  the  tub,  who  had 
promised  such  wealth,  might  be  seized  and  taken  down 
to  Suva  in  chains!  It  seemed  that  fate  stared  with  de- 
termined eyes  when  those  scarred  faces  looked  on  the 
new-comers,  who  stood  like  shadows  at  the  doorway. 
There  was  no  doubt  about  it;  they  were  men-hunters! 
Then  there  was  a  lot  of  bustling  and  whispering,  fearful 
efforts,  and  big  bribes  were  promised  to  allay  suspicion,  as 
eight  of  the  stoutest  Organization  members  sat  on  the 
lid  of  the  tub,  grim  determination  on  their  faces,  a  re- 
solve in  their  eyes  to  sell  their  lives  dearly  ere  they  gave 
up  that  mighty  hope  with  side-whiskers  and  such  prom- 
ises! 

When  those  surveillants  went  away,  quite  convinced 
that  they  were  on  the  wrong  track,  the  whole  shanty's 
crew  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  It  sounded  as  though 
a  young  hurricane  slept  there,  and  had  stirred  in  its  sleep 


332  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

as  a  score  of  "  Phews!  "  of  delighted  relief  went  across 
the  hot,  rum-smelling  compartment,  as  one  by  one  the 
candles  were  relit.  Swiftly  taking  the  lid  off  the  emer- 
gency barrel,  they  dragged  forth  the  old  gentleman. 
Their  hearts  were  touched  by  the  sight  they  beheld.  His 
eyes  rolled,  his  clerical  hat  looked  like  a  broken  pancake 
stuck  on  his  head,  it  was  smashed  flat  through  the  sudden 
uncalculated  fall  of  the  heavy  lid  in  the  darkness. 

"  What  was  that  ?  "  he  wailed,  as  he  recovered  con- 
sciousness, and  the  light  of  reason  flickered  across  the 
pupils  of  his  sunken  eyes. 

"  Nothing  much,"  said  someone  soothingly,  as  they 
pushed  his  smashed  hat  into  shape.  It  was  like  attempt- 
ing to  stand  a  corpse  on  its  feet,  ere  rigor  mortis  had  set 
in,  when  they  tried  to  stand  him  up. 

"  Blimey !  he's  a-going,  blest  if  'e  ain't,"  said  one. 
Then  they  poured  some  rum  down  his  throat. 

Rum  seemed  to  have  its  virtues,  for  the  old  man  made 
a  wonderful  recovery  after  the  dose  was  poured  down 
his  throat.  Half  an  hour  afterwards  he  was  singing 
"  Little  Annie  Rooney's  my  sweetheart,"  and  telling 
jokes.  Then  he  sang  again  till  his  voice  got  wheezy, 
telling  tales  as  he  banged  his  fist  on  the  bench,  and  nudged 
the  men  in  the  ribs,  while  they  roared  with  laughter! 
Still  he  drank  on.  "  Rum !  Rum !  "  shouted  he.  Then 
he  stood  up  on  the  bench  and  danced  with  a  stout  native 
woman  from  Tambu-tambu  village.  The  delight  of  the 
women  and  the  shanty  members  was  such  that  they 
nearly  raised  the  roof  with  their  wild  encores  and  shouts. 
He  did  a  two-step  dance !  He  mimicked  the  indescribable 
barbarian  contortions  of  that  native  woman's  monstrous 
antics!  He  smacked  her  bare  arms,  pinched  her  tawny 
flesh,  winked  like  an  old  roue,  showing  conclusively  what 
manner  of  man  he  really  was.  The  native  children 
peeped  through  the  shanty  doorway,  and  when  they  ob- 


RETROSPECT  333 

served  that  fashionable  old  gentleman  dancing  away  with 
a  woman  of  their  own  land,  they  shrieked  with  delight. 
The  atmosphere  of  the  Stone  Age  seemed  to  hang  about 
the  old  man  as  the  derelicts  around  him  cheered  every 
"turn"  he  gave,  as  he  repeatedly  recaught  each  ''fine 
careless  rapture  " ! 

Then  the  hubbub  subsided,  and  one  by  one  the  drunken 
audience  fell  asleep.-  Old  Tideman,  who  was  a  crank 
on  astronomy,  crept  outside  with  his  telescope  to  look 
at  the  stars.  The  wide-open  door  revealed  the  moonlit 
palms  just  outside  and  the  few  straggling  figures  of  sulu- 
clad  natives  who  had  crept  from  afar  to  listen  to  the 
songs  of  the  wild  white  men!  The  last  that  was  seen 
of  the  old  man  that  night  was  when  he  went  off  down 
the  track,  his  little  clerical  hat  bashed  over  his  eyes,  his 
arms  waving  as  he  tried  to  make  his  companion  under- 
stand how  he  admired  her  frizzly  mop  hair  and  lustrous 
eyes.  For  it  was  the  fat  native  woman  with  whom  he 
had  danced  a  Fijian  jig  on  the  bench  table!  O'Hara 
grinned  when  he  met  the  old  gent  in  the  morning.  He 
responded  by  giving  him  a  freezing  stare,  as  though  he 
hardly  knew  him !  He  looked  quite  pious,  as  though  he 
only  indulged  in  plain  milk  diet  and  studied  ecclesiastical 
problems.  He  looked  bad  though;  one  can't  bribe  the 
liver  and  make  its  overflow  look  blushing  .and  rosy  red 
when  it's  really  a  bilious  green!  The  night  of  de- 
bauchery had  aged  him  considerably.  His  hands  shook; 
he  didn't  know  which  way  to  go.  First  he  picked  a 
flower,  chewed  it,  then  wiped  his  mouth  and  his  clammy 
forehead.  O'Hara  went  straight  into  business  then,  and 
said: 

"  I'm  clearing  out  to-day.  I've  hired  a  fine  outrigger- 
canoe  that's  big  enough  to  hold  twenty."  Then  he  looked 
square  into  the  aged  fugitive's  face,  and  asked  him  if 
he  was  coming  along  with  us. 


334  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

He  was  as  pleased  to  get  away  from  that  place  as  we 
were,  that  was  very  evident,  for  he  decided  to  go  away 
with  O'Hara  and  myself  at  once.  There  was  no  need 
for  secrecy,  the  shanty  was  quiet  as  the  grave;  for  the 
sleeping  reprobates  were  making  up  by  day  for  sleep 
lost  through  the  night.  Only  the  forest  banyans  sighed 
as  we  three  crept  away  into  the  shadows,  and  then  even 
the  wail  of  the  derelict  captain's  concertina  faded  away 
as  we  plunged  into  the  dense  wood.  When  we  arrived 
at  the  native  village  we  found,  to  our  disgust,  that  the 
man  who  had  promised  to  lend  us  the  canoe  was  out 
fishing  in  it. 

"  It's  no  good  getting  ratty,  guv'nor,"  said  O'Hara, 
as  the  old  fellow  began  to  swear,  and  said  he'd  go  back 
to  the  Organization.  We  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  when 
the  native  boat-owner  at  length  returned.  In  a  moment 
we  were  off,  bound  for  the  shore.  The  old  man  dropped 
his  walking-stick  in  his  hurry;  we  were  all  anxious  to 
get  away.  As  we  went  down  the  long  grove  of  feathery 
palms  and  giant  breadfruits  the  stars  were  shining  over 
the  sea.  We  could  feel  the  cool  drifts  of  wind  coming 
in  as  they  stirred  the  wild  odours  of  half -dead  forest 
flowers  and  decaying  pineapples.  As  we  tramped  down 
the  soft  shore-track  we  saw  the  fireflies  dancing  in  the 
bamboos  that  grew  high  up  on  the  edge  of  the  rocky  slope 
above  us,  far  ahead.  It  seemed  as  though  we  were  look- 
ing through  a  telescope  and  could  see  myriads  of  tiny 
worlds  sparkling  and  dancing  far  away  in  infinite  space. 

When  we  arrived  down  by  the  big  shore  lagoon,  there 
lay  the  large  outrigger,  floating  on  the  still  water,  just 
as  the  native  told  us  it  would  be.  He  trusted  us.  For 
were  we  not  "  noble  Papalagis  "  ? 

Not  a  soul  was  in  sight  as  we  stepped  into  that  strange 
craft.  In  a  minute  or  two  we  had  pushed  off  into  the 
deeper  water.  We  were  both  dab  hands  at  paddling. 


RETROSPECT  335 

The  scene  looked  like  some  picture  of  enchantment,  some 
picturesque  landscape  out  of  an  Arabian  Nights'  enter- 
tainment. Only  the  dipping  of  the  paddles  which  rippled 
the  glassy  oil-painting-like  stillness  of  the  creek's  water 
gave  a  certain  reality  to  the  mystic  scene.  The  old  man 
might  have  been  some  weird  old  "  Pasha  of  many  tales  " 
starting  off  on  a  voyage  into  fairy-land  with  a  clerical 
hat  on.  It  was  only  the  swelling  on  the  side  of  his  head 
where  he  had  been  thrust  into  the  emergency  barrel  that 
reminded  one  of  gross,  mundane  things. 

It  was  a  terrifically  hot  night.  The  sea  just  outside 
was  perfectly  calm  and  wonderfully  bright.  On  the 
horizon  shone  the  large,  low,  yellow  moon,  bringing  into 
relief  the  wild  inland  shores,  gullies,  buttressed  banyans, 
and  belts  of  mangroves  that  grew  down  to  the  ocean's 
edge. 

The  moon  looked  like  some  far-off,  phantom  tunnel- 
way  as  the  ornamental  prow  of  our  canoe  turned  and 
glided  silently,  making  straight  for  its  ghostly  rim,  due 
south.  The  old  fellow's  face  was  turned  towards  its 
magnificent  mystery;  O'Hara  sat  in  the  centre  of  the 
canoe,  and  I  aft.  We  were  not  more  than  twenty  yards 
from  the  shore  then.  It  really  did  look  as  though  we 
were  paddling  away  from  some  enchanted  isle ;  only  the 
cry  of  some  strange  night-bird  and  the  leap  of  a  tidal 
wave  over  the  reefs,  as  it  splashed  into  the  lagoon's  still 
water,  made  a  feeble,  ghost-like  noise. 

"  It's  quite  safe,  fellows,  I  suppose  ?  "  queried  the  old 
man,  as  he  looked  anxiously  about  him. 

"  Safe  as  houses,"  O'Hara  replied.  Then  he  said, 
"What's  that?" 

We  all  looked  shoreward.  Out  by  the  edge  of  the 
promontory  we  distinctly  saw  a  tiny  phosphorescent 
splash  as  though  some  strange  animal  had  darted  from 
the  forest  and  dived  into  the  deep  water. 


336  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

We  still  watched,  then  we  distinctly  saw  shivering  lines 
of  silver  ripples  stealing  towards  us,  coming  fast,  trem- 
bling and  spreading  swiftly  on  the  ocean's  perfectly  calm, 
moonlit  surface. 

"  It's  something  big  swimming  under  the  water. 
Begorra !  a  shark  coming  for  us !  "  said  O'Hara.  The 
old  gent  shot  up  on  his  feet  with  fright  and  nearly  upset 
the  canoe!  I  think  my  comrade  and  I  looked  a  bit 
palish  as  the  uncanniness  of  that  movement  of  the  un- 
seen came  straight  for  us.  "  Wish  I'd  brought  a  re- 
volver. By  St.  Patrick!  who'd  'ave  thought  things 
was  a-going  to  swim  after  us  under  the  blasted 
water?" 

"  Keep  still ;  don't  move ! "  said  I,  my  heart  in  my 
mouth,  for  the  ripples  were  within  thirty  yards  of  our 
canoe,  and  still  no  sign  whatever  of  the  cause  of  that 
mysterious  movement  beneath  the  water. 

Then  we  stared  as  though  we'd  sighted  a  ghost;  up 
poked  a  tiny  curly  head,  two  bright,  beautiful  eyes  were 
staring  reproachfully  at  me! 

"Good  Lord!"  I  gasped;  "it's  Soogy!" 

We  pulled  him  into  the  canoe.  O'Hara  used  an  awful 
swear  word,  said  unprintable  things.  As  for  me,  I  felt 
some  strange,  haunting  kind  of  a  fear  come  over  me  as 
the  child  sat  there. 

"  You  go  tryer  and  getter  away  from  your  little 
Soogy?"  said  that  weird  child. 

"  No,"  said  I,  shaking  my  head,  feeling  guilty  as  I 
replied,  "  No,  Soogy,"  half  apologetically!  Then  I  said: 
"  We  were  coming  back  to-morrow  morning.  How  on 
earth  did  you  know  we  were  out  here  in  a  canoe?  " 

The  little  fellow's  eyes  brightened;  he  simply  looked 
at  me  earnestly  for  a  while,  then  said : 

"  I  knower  all  'bout  you !  The  wind  blow  in  cave  by 
sea  and  tell  me  all." 


RETROSPECT  337 

"Well,  I'm  blithered  and  damned  if  that  kid  won't 
bring  us  bad  luck,"  said  O'Hara. 

Soogy  had  calmly  got  to  the  rear  of  the  canoe,  had 
taken  the  steering-rod,  and  had  started  to  guide  us  with 
the  splendid  precision  of  a  native  child.  The  prow  was 
toward  the  south,  bound  for  the  isle  of  Lakemba. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  your  way  ?  "  suddenly  said  the 
old  gentleman,  as  he  leaned  forward,  struck  a  match,  and 
lit  a  cigar. 

O'Hara  never  answered,  simply  looked  contemptu- 
ously at  the  white-whiskered  face  as  the  mouth  sent  up 
curling  whiffs  of  blue  smoke  into  the  clear  moonlit  air. 
We  were  out  in  the  deep  ocean  by  then,  paddling  for  all 
we  were  worth.  The  distance  by  night  took  one  quite 
out  of  sight  of  land ;  even  by  daylight  the  nearest  shore- 
line in  the  farthest  distance  looked  like  a  blue  blotch 
on  the  horizon. 

I  think  we  had  been  paddling  about  an  hour  when  the 
moon  suddenly  went  out  and  seemed  to  leave  a  puff  of 
bright  smoke  behind — it  had  gone  behind  a  cloud. 

"  That  was  sudden-like !  "  said  O'Hara. 

It  was  a  puff  of  wind ;  it  blew  the  old  gentleman's  hat 
off. 

"  Hope  it's  not  going  to  blow,"  was  my  mental  com- 
ment, as  once  again  a  breath  came  down  from  the  sky 
and  stirred  the  glassy  surface.  The  old  fellow  saw  the 
look  in  our  eyes,  and,  guessing  that  things  were  not  as 
well  as  they  could  be,  said :  "  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
we  had  to  go  out  of  sight  of  land?  I'd  never  have 
risked  this ;  I  wouldn't — I  wouldn't,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self. Then  without  further  warning  it  came — crash!  a 
typhoon  was  on  us.  The  first  blast  nearly  blew  the  out- 
rigger out  of  the  water.  The  only  reason  that  it  didn't 
turn  turtle  was  that  the  outrigger  contrivance  had  been 
constructed  by  the  superior  savage  intellect.  It  seemed 


338  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

that  the  bright  worlds  of  stars  and  sea  had  been  sponged 
off  the  map  of  existence,  as  we  clung  to  each  other,  and 
the  mountainous  seas  heaved  their  backs  and  began  to 
roar  like  thunder  around  us.  The  old  fellow  had  lost  his 
nerve,  he  wept  and  implored  us  to  save  him ;  but  O'Hara 
and  I  were  very  busy  saving  ourselves  in  that  chaos  of 
dark  and  wind  and  ramping  seas. 

Soogy  was  there  all  right,  I  felt  his  hand  clinging  to 
my  leg. 

"  Keep  still !  For  God's  sake,  don't  move !  "  we  both 
cried,  as  the  old  man  came  to  our  end  of  the  canoe, 
nearly  upsetting  our  planet,  for  such  that  craft  was  to 
us.  Soogy  had  taken  a  paddle  to  help  O'Hara  and  so 
keep  her  head  on  to  the  tremendous  seas,  but  it  was  no 
use;  she  slewed  round  and  went  broadside  on,  and  so 
the  seas  swamped  us.  But  still  we  did  not  sink.  Those 
stout  bamboo  poles  kept  the  craft  buoyant  and  steady 
as  compared  to  what  would  have  happened  had  they  not 
been  there.  For  Soogy  was  sitting  on  the  dancing  out- 
rigger, balancing  it  as  the  big  seas  came  on  and  tried  in 
vain  to  turn  us  upside  down !  Ah,  he  was  a  plucky  little 
beggar,  quite  devoid  of  fear.  We  three  men  simply 
gave  up  the  ghost  so  far  as  making  intelligent  efforts 
to  save  ourselves  were  concerned.  O'Hara  clung  to  me, 
I  clung  to  O'Hara,  and  the  old  fellow  clung  to  us  both. 
The  hot,  terrific  wind  hissed,  shrieked  over  us  as  we 
felt  the  canoe  go  up — up !  on  the  mountainous  seas,  then 
down — down!  into  the  terrible  thundering  valleys  as  the 
angry  waters  fell.  Then  once  again  we  were  climbing 
the  travelling  hills  that  were  drifting  us  away  far  out 
into  the  vast  solitude  of  the  Pacific  Ocean ! 

It  seemed  as  if  that  dark  and  roaring  wind  hung  over 
our  heads  for  infinite  ages.  How  we  clung  to  that  out- 
rigger and  were  not  washed  away  is  a  mystery  that  is 
connected  with  Providence  and  that  word  "  inscrutable." 


RETROSPECT  339 

When  dawn  at  length  brightened  all  the  east,  I  lifted 
my  head  half  fearfully.  Soogy  was  huddled  beside  me, 
O'Hara  on  the  other  side,  so  tight  that  we  were  wedged 
in.  The  old  gentleman  had  managed  to  fix  his  head  and 
neck  under  the  forward  canoe-seat  in  such  a  way  that 
he  had  become  a  part  of  the  canoe  itself !  His  bald  head, 
through  sea-water  repeatedly  washing  over  it,  had  be- 
come quite  bluish-looking.  By  some  miracle  his  clerical- 
shaped  hat  still  lay  just  beside  him.  When  O'Hara  softly 
pulled  his  coat  to  see  if  he  was  still  alive,  he  half  opened 
his  eyes  and  rolled  them  in  a  pathetic  way.  The  fact 
that  he  still  lived  relieved  our  loneliness.  The  wind  had 
ceased,  but  the  swell  remained,  huge  rolling  hills  of  glassy 
water  rising  and  travelling  at  about  four  knots  an  hour. 
We  immediately  commenced  to  bale  out  the  canoe,  using 
a  calabash  and  a  tin  which  we  discovered  beneath  the 
seat.  Soogy  and  the  old  man  helped  O'Hara  and  myself 
in  this  task.  We  all  felt  deeply  thankful  when  the  sun 
burst  out  over  the  great  waste  in  all  its  tropical  vigour. 
Soogy  began  to  sing,  and  cheered  us  up.  None  of  us 
seemed  to  realize  the  true  state  of  affairs,  that  we  were 
out  of  sight  of  land,  were  castaways  on  the  Pacific,  our 
paddles  gone,  and  only  about  two  pints  of  water  in  a  rusty 
tin  can ! 

The  hot  sunlight  soon  dried  our  soaked  clothing. 

The  old  fugitive  became  transformed.  The  erstwhile 
freezing  look  in  his  eyes  had  gone,  and  was  replaced  by 
a  gleam  of  friendly  appeal  to  us!  It  was  quite  evident 
that  he  saw  things  as  they  were,  and  had  admitted  O'Hara 
and  myself  into  his  social  circle,  so  to  speak.  He  gave 
us  cigars.  To  our  relief  he  discovered  some  matches 
in  his  breast  pocket ;  they  were  damp,  but  we  placed  them 
on  the  rim  of  his  clerical  hat  and  they  soon  dried  in  the 
hot  sunlight.  That  hait  had  gone  through  something !  To 
this  day  I  cannot  look  at  a  clerical  hat  without  thinking 


340  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

of  typhoons  and  tropic  skies  shining  over  wastes  of  water 
surrounded  by  illimitable  skylines. 

We  commenced  carefully,  and  drank  a  very  small  drop 
of  water  each.  We  made  several  attempts  to  make 
paddles  out  of  the  spare  calabash  and  the  slit  wood  of 
a  canoe  seat,  but  it  was  no  good.  We  were  drifting  at 
about  four  knots  an  hour  to  the  north-east. 

As  the  hours  went  by  we  began  to  realize  our  position. 
And  yet,  somehow,  it  seemed  incredible  that  we  should 
be  cast  away  on  those  lonely  waters  so  easily. 

"  A  ship  is  sure  to  pass  us  soon,"  said  O'Hara. 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  I  replied,  as  our  aged  companion  put 
his  hand  to  his  brow  and  repeatedly  scanned  the  horizon. 
I  even  laughed,  and  so  did  O'Hara,  and  I  thought  of  my 
old  sea-adventure  books,  and  felt  quite  a  romantic  hero 
of  the  tropic  seas.  But  I  soon  began  to  feel  very  unheroic, 
and  felt  inclined  to  laugh  on  "  the  other  side  of  my 
mouth,"  as  they  say.  It  was  the  coming  of  night  that 
made  the  romantic  novelty  wear  off.  There's  nothing  in 
the  world  like  the  shadows  of  night  coming  over  the 
heads  of  castaways  to  make  them  sadly  realise,  so  I 
should  think.  Reality  came  down  on  us  like  a  huge, 
Fate-like  hand,  and  seemed  to  crush,  smash  us  as  though 
we  were  bedraggled  flies  on  a  mighty  window-pane! 

Night  was  a  nightmare  with  a  myriad  starry  eyes. 
Thirst  had  us  in  its  grip,  but  we  dare  not  drink  the  tiny 
drop  of  water  that  remained  in  the  can.  I  fell  asleep  for 
five  minutes,  but  only  managed  to  fall  off  into  some  gulf 
of  misery  that  was  mixed  up  with  the  horror  of  death 
and  castaway  canoes.  Then  O'Hara  and  I  sat  up  and 
started  to  sing  a  sea-chanty,  to  cheer  up  the  old  gentleman 
and  little  Soogy.  But,  withal,  Soogy  was  plucky  enough. 
As  for  the  aged  fugitive,  he  started  to  carry  on  in  a 
terrible  way,  and  kept  crying  out :  "  Lost  at  sea  in  a 
boat !  Lost  at  sea  in  a  boat !  "  Then  he  got  sleepy  and 


RETROSPECT  341 

mumbled  it  out  in  a  pathetic,  far-away  tone,  and  got  on 
our  nerves  more  than  I  can  express  in  cold  words. 

I  once  fancied  that  I  saw  the  light  of  a  passing  vessel, 
but  it  soon  died  away,  whatever  it  was. 

"  May  the  Holy  Virgin  protect  us  all!  "  said  O'Hara. 

Then  dawn  came.  Soogy  stopped  singing  songs.  The 
sight  of  the  child's  bright,  fevered  eyes  and  parched  lips 
unnerved  us.  O'Hara  did  the  worst  thing  he  could  do, 
gave  the  child  a  tiny  drop  of  spirit  as  he  lay  moaning 
out  on  the  twisted  bamboo  grating  of  the  outrigger. 
Soogy  tried  hard  to  buck  up,  but  his  small  frame  hadn't 
the  lasting  power  that  our  larger  frames  possessed.  At 
the  end  of  the  second  day,  as  near  as  I  can  remember, 
we  realized  our  position,  and  knew  that  we  were  float- 
ing on  the  very  edge  of  eternity.  The  old  man  became 
quite  brave.  His  eyes  lost  all  the  old  cunning  and  craft 
that  I  had  so  particularly  observed  in  them.  Even  then, 
my  numbed  senses  seemed  to  realize  that  it  was  only 
the  worldly  world  that  makes  men  bad,  the  earthly  values 
of  things  inspiring  them  with  greed  till  their  darker 
passions  overgrow  their  better  qualities  as  weeds  over- 
grow and  strangle  flowers. 

We  shared  out  the  last  drop  of  water.  The  old  gentle- 
man gave  Soogy  a  part  of  his  share,  and  we  did  likewise. 
O'Hara  became  quite  religious,  in  the  true  sense  of  that 
much  misused  word.  Through  the  whole  day  and  night 
we  never  ceased  lifting  our  weary  heads  to  stare  on  the 
skyline.  But  no  vessel  passed.  The  old  man  placed  his 
large  red  handkerchief  over  Soogy.  It  was  a  terrible 
sight,  as  Soogy's  hands  tossed,  to  see  the  blisters  on  the 
little  arms.  But  it  was  no  use  waving  to  the  hot  tropic 
sun  as  it  shone  up  there  in  the  cloudless  sky. 

"We're  done  for,"  said  O'Hara;  then  he,  too,  lay 
down  again,  and  seemed  to  grow  careless  as  to  whatever 
might  happen. 


342  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

That  night  Soogy  revived  in  a  wonderful  way.  I  was 
lying  in  a  semi-conscious  state  when  I  felt  someone  gently 
touch  my  arm. 

"You  sorry  for  Soogy?"  said  a  far-away-sounding 
voice.  The  child  was  staring  in  my  eyes  in  a  strange, 
quiet  way. 

"  Perhaps  I'm  dreaming,"  I  thought,  as  a  great  sense 
of  the  unreal  came  over  me.  My  heart  began  to  thump 
and  my  senses  to  whirl  and  swim.  O'Hara  and  the  old 
man  were  lying  just  beside  us,  perfectly  quiet,  as  though 
dead.  I  stared  into  the  eyes  of  the  wistful  little  face. 

"Is  it  you,  Soogy?"  I  said  in  a  hushed  voice,  as  I 
lifted  my  aching  head.  "  Dear  God !  "  I  muttered,  as 
I  realized  something  for  the  first  time,  while  the  child's 
eyes  stared  into  my  own.  I  felt  that  I  had  never  seen 
such  soft,  beautiful  eyes  before.  Floating  there,  under 
the  stars  of  the  tropic  seas,  nothing  seemed  too  strange 
or  wonderful  to  occur.  A  terrible  sorrow  possessed  me 
as  I  touched  the  soft,  tiny  hand,  and  pressed  my  lips 
to  those  pleading  lips!  For  a  little  while,  that  seemed 
like  a  thousand  years,  Soogy  huddled  beneath  the  folds 
of  my  coat. 

"You  come  to  me  if  I  die,  come  to  heathenland  ?  " 
Such  was  what  a  faint  voice,  like  far-off  music,  whispered 
in  my  ears.  I  cannot  say  one  word  of  all  that  I  whis- 
pered into  the  child's  ear.  I  said  mad  things,  I  know. 

"  I  happy  now,  Papalagi,"  whispered  that  faint,  strange 
voice. 

At  daybreak  Soogy  died. 

O'Hara  laid  the  silent  form  out  on  the  edge  of  the 
outrigger's  grating.  All  that  day  O'Hara  and  I  kept 
our  backs  turned  towards  that  silent  form,  lying  there, 
face  downwards.  I  told  O'Hara  to  lay  Soogy  like  that. 
I  couldn't  stand  seeing  those  earnest  eyes  staring  all  night 
up  at  the  merciless  infinity  of  stars. 


RETROSPECT  343 

The  old  fugitive  became  insane.  We  only  saw  his 
head  move;  he  had  covered  it  over  with  a  bit  of  sacking 
Ito  keep  the  sun's  rays  off. 

"  Forgive  me,  Cissie — forgive  me,  Cissie ;  keep  the 
keys — keep  the  keys,"  he  kept  saying  over  and  over  again 
in  his  delirium.  The  sky  was  no  longer  a  sky  to  me,  it 
was  a  monstrous  slab  lying  over  a  mighty  vault  wherein 
the  dead  still  breathed  as  they  floated  and  tossed  their 
arms  in  agony  on  illimitable  waters. 

Soogy's  death  seemed  to  revive  O'Hara  and  me;  yet 
we  said  very  little  to  each  other.  It  was  a  world  of 
dreams  that  we  stared  in,  some  phantasmagorial  exist- 
ence where  only  death  whispered  as  the  outrigger  plopped 
in  the  star-mirroring  deep  around  us.  O'Hara  was  no 
longer  my  pal  in  sorrow ;  we  had  become  rivals  in  some 
terrible  struggle  of  will-power.  The  energy  of  the  whole 
universe  seemed  to  be  wholly  concentrated  on  one  vital 
move  on  the  tremendous  chess-board  of  that  phantasmal 
world  of  water  whereon  we  drifted.  O'Hara  and  I  were 
the  sorrowing  slaves  of  Fate;  nothing  else  existed,  only 
he  and  I  and  the  dreadful  thought  as  to  which  one  of  us 
must  put  forth  our  hand  and  make  that  terrible  move. 
It  was  inevitable  that  one  of  us  must  do  it,  for  on  those 
tropic  seas  there  was  no  other  way  than  to  crawl  out 
on  the  outrigger  and  push  that  small  dead  form  into  the 
vast  depths  that  moved  around  us.  The  tropic  moon 
loomed  on  the  horizon.  It  might  have  been  the  uprising 
sun,  for  all  I  knew,  in  that  world  of  horror  that  I  had 
been  plunged  into.  I  looked  over  the  canoe's  side  and 
gazed  into  the  glassy  depths.  I  saw  a  great  shark  gliding 
along  under  the  surface.  It  seemed  natural  that  it  should 
be  there,  waiting  for  us.  I  gazed  in  a  languid,  interested 
way  as  that  cannibal  of  the  deep  turned  softly  over  on 
its  back  and  revealed  its  shining  belly.  Its  cruel,  mon- 
strous mouth  looked  like  some  materialized  jaw  of  pallid 


344  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

hate  as  it  softly  snapped  at  my  shadow  that  lay  in  the 
moonlit  deep,  and  severed  it  in  two !  Then  O'Hara  dis- 
solved into  some  cobweb-like  substance  and  was  blown 
away  on  the  puff  of  wind  that  crept  across  the  hot  seas. 

Dawn  came  like  a  mighty  torrent  of  silver  and  swept 
across  the  silent  world  of  waters.  I  felt  that  I  was 
floating  across  shadow-seas.  For  a  little  while  I  heard 
a  faint  moaning  and  felt  cool  sea-water  slashing  over 
me.  I  tried  to  move,  but  something  held  my  feet  down 
in  a  merciless  grip.  It  was  all  the  more  terrible  because 
I  realized  in  some  mysterious  way  that  I  was  far  at  sea 
on  that  castaway  canoe.  The  fact  was,  that  a  breeze 
had  sprung  up  and  the  canoe  was  being  tossed  wildly  to 
and  fro.  Why  none  of  us  was  thrown  out  is  a  mystery. 
Anyhow,  the  blow  was  of  short  duration,  for  I  suddenly 
lifted  my  head,  and  saw  O'Hara  and  the  old  gentleman 
lying  perfectly  still  beside  me.  Then  the  world  seemed 
to  change  again :  night  fell  over  the  sea.  Again  I  watched 
that  silent  form  lying  out  on  the  grating.  Again  the 
dawn  sent  grey  wings  along  the  eastern  horizon.  It 
was  then  that  I  became  strangely  calm,  and,  terrible  as 
the  sight  was,  as  that  child  lay  dead  on  the  grating  of 
the  canoe,  I  smiled  and  looked  upon  it  all  as  the  most 
commonplace  of  experiences. 

"  Good-bye,  Soogy,"  I  said,  then  I  gently  pushed  the 
small  figure  from  the  bamboo-outrigger.  Some  terrible 
spell  of  curiosity  gripped  me.  I  stared  down  into  the 
water  in  wistful  fascination,  as,  leaning  over,  I  watched 
the  spot  where  the  ripples  spread,  where  the  small  form 
had  gone  down,  down  into  the  clear,  still  ocean  depth 
at  dawn.  I  could  still  distinctly  see  Soogy  sinking  down 
into  the  grave!  It  looked  like  the  figure  of  some  tiny 
child  imaged  in  some  vast  crystal  mirror  as  down,  down 
it  went.  Only  the  mournful  cry  of  a  solitary  sea-bird, 
fis  it  passed  across  the  sky  and  sent  a  shadow  over  that 


RETROSPECT  345 

wandering  grave,  broke  the  stillness.  Then  I  saw  the 
figure  begin  to  sway  rhythmically  to  some  deep  ocean 
current.  Presently  it  looked  no  bigger  than  a  penny 
terra-cotta-coloured  doll. 

Ah,  I  had  hoped  to  find  that  it  was  all  a  dream  as  I 
still  watched,  rubbed  my  eyes,  and  hoped  with  a  terrible 
hope.  I  well  knew,  as  that  tiny  remnant  of  mortality 
faded  from  sight,  that  I  was  living  in  some  terrible 
sorrow  of  reality.  I  thought  of  those  forest  dances  away 
in  Fiji,  of  the  weird,  tender  glances  of  those  deep,  golden- 
iris  eyes,  when  Soogy  crept  out  of  the  forest  palms  to 
make  my  bed.  I  remembered  the  sweet,  weird  song  the 
heathen  child  had  sung  to  me,  and  how  the  witch-like 
little  singer  had  stared  across  the  camp-fire  till  I  had 
felt  some  strange  fright!  Bu't  the  mystery  of  it  all  had 
vanished,  for,  on  the  second  night  after  the  storm,  O'Hara 
and  I  had  discovered  the  truth — Soogy  was  no  boy  at 
all,  but  a  half-caste  Polynesian  girl ! 

A  great  silence  seemed  to  come  over  the  world  after 
Soogy  sank  from  sight.  And  then  my  dreams  were 
broken,  and  I  fancied  I  could  hear  the  breakers  beating 
against  eternity.  Someone  touched  me  softly  on  the 
brow,  and  a  voice  said : 

"  Try  and  stand  on  your  feet ;  we're  saved,  pal." 

I  half  realized  something,  and  sat  up.  I  looked  imme- 
diately to  the  southward  and  saw  the  eternal  wastes  of 
sea-skyline,  then  I  glanced  round  and  noticed  that  our 
canoe  was  tossing  about  on  a  heavy  swell  just  off  a 
rocky  coast.  We  were  so  near  the  reefs  that  I  could 
head  the  soughing  of  the  wind  along  the  bending  tracts 
of  shore  palms  (it  turned  out  to  be  the  Tonga  Islands). 
O'Hara  was  sitting  on  the  bamboo  grating  of  the  canoe's 
outrigger.  His  face  appeared  extremely  thin  and  was 
ghastly  pale.  The  aged  fugitive  sat  huddled  by  the  prow, 
his  battered  clerical  hat  held  in  his  trembling  hand,  his 


346  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

chin  on  his  chest,  a  wild  look  in  his  eyes.  They  both 
looked  like  emaciated  phantom-figures,  quite  unreal. 
Only  at  that  moment  in  my  life  did  I  realize  in  a  flash 
liow  we  mortals  are  but  shadows  moving  through  some 
dream  that  divides  our  existence  from  the  boundless 
reality  of  the  great  shadowland.  True  enough,  too,  I 
had  awakened  from  a  terrible  reality  into  a  darker  dream. 

"The  child's  gone!"  said  O'Hara. 

"  I  know,"  I  muttered  in  a  vacant  way  before  I  re- 
alized the  truth.  Then,  in  the  terror  of  dawning  realiza- 
tion, I  gasped  out,  "Where's  Soogy?" 

"  She  must  have  been  washed  away  by  the  squall  last 
night,"  said  O'Hara,  and  his  voice  was  as  gentle  as  a 
girl's. 

After  that  tragical  experience  we  were  taken  in  by 
the  missionaries  at  Tonga  and  treated  with  the  kindness 
that  is  always  shown  to  shipwrecked  men  wherever  they 
may  go.  We  soon  recovered  physically  from  the  buffet- 
ing of  our  castaway  voyage.  I  know  that  in  the  comfort 
of  life  under  secure  conditions  in  Tonga,  the  old  gentle- 
man's freezing  look  almost  came  back  to  his  little  blue 
eyes;  but  when  he  discovered  that  I  was  a  professional 
violinist  as  well  as  a  vagabond  troubadour,  his  manner 
became  almost  polite.  This  deeply-rooted  conventional 
attribute  of  the  old  man's  was  the  more  noticeable  when 
I  secured  a  position  at  Nukualofa  as  Court  violinist  to 
King  George  of  Tonga,1  also  a  munificent  salary  that 
was  considerably  augmented  by  gifts  from  the  head  mis- 
sionaries, who  willingly  paid  me  for  my  solos  at  the 
mission-room  concerts.  My  Irish  comrade  could  hardly 
believe  his  eyes  when  I  stood  on  the  primitive  platforms 
of  the  native  villages  and  became  an  enthusiastic  appealer 
to  the  souls  of  the  pagan  Tongans.  I  recall  that,  when 

*  King  George  of  Tonga  died  recently,   1918. 


RETROSPECT  347 

I  played  and  conducted  the  royal  string  band  in  the  native 
wedding-march  on  the  marriage  of  some  prince  of  the 
old  dynasty,  the  Queen  of  Tonga  presented  me  with  an 
exquisitely  carved  tortoise-shell  comb  from  her  hair.  In- 
deed, I  was  doing  exceedingly  well,  considering  that  I 
had  no  letters  of  introduction.  This  kind  of  thing  went 
on  for  nearly  three  weeks,  when  a  full-rigged  sailing-ship, 
the  "  Orontes,"  dropped  anchor  off  the  island.  Its  sails 
gleaming  in  the  sunset,  shining  like  beautiful  signals  of 
romance,  called  me,  till  the  old  roaming  spirit,  asserting 
itself,  shattered  all  my  ambitions  over  kings,  queens, 
missionaries,  Court  appointments,  and  salaries.  The 
"  Orontes  "  was  bound  for  Ysabel,  Solomon  Isles,  and 
British  New  Guinea.  When  I  went  aboard  her  and  in- 
terviewed the  skipper,  telling  him  I  wanted  a  berth,  he 
shook  his  head,  and  said  he  could  get  a  dozen  Kanakas 
for  the  price  of  a  drink,  as  good  as  any  white  men,  any 
day.  And  so,  when  the  "  Orontes,"  with  her  sails  belly- 
ing to  the  winds,  bowed  to  the  sunset  on  her  long  voyage 
across  the  Pacific,  O'Hara  and  I  lay  huddled  on  old 
sacks  in  the  deep  gloom  of  the  forepeak-hold,  where  we 
had  secured  the  cheapest  berth — as  stowaways! 

In  my  imagination  I  can  still  see  O'Hara's  grimy, 
unshaven  face  as  he  sits  in  the  gloom  beside  me,  puffs 
his  short  pipe,  and  drinks  at  regular  intervals  from  the 
water-bottle.  The  rats  squeak. 

"  Don't  smoke,  for  Heaven's  sake,"  I  say,  as  O'Hara 
strikes  another  match  on  the  ship's  iron  side.  I  feel 
sick  enough  in  that  stuffy  hold  as  the  vessel  pitches  to 
the  swell.  Then,  as  I  sit  there  amongst  the  strong,  evil- 
smelling  merchandise  of  our  wandering  argosy,  I  place 
my  fiddle  on  my  knee  and  go  "  pink-e-te  ponk-e-te,"  pizzi- 
cato style,  as  my  fingers  strum  out  an  old  English  melody. 

"  For  God's  sake,  shut  up,  pal ! "  says  O'Hara,  as  we 
hear  the  sailormen  tramping  on  the  deck  just  overhead, 


348 

as  they  go  on  watch  in  the  silence  of  the  hot  tropic  night. 
But  all  that's  past  now.  My  Irish  comrade  went  out 
of  my  life  years  ago.  And  I  suppose  the  old  fugitive, 
with  his  clerical  hat,  has  long  since  paid  his  last  debt, 
and  kind  men  have  hidden  his  artful  face  in  that  place 
where  no  living  man  will  search  to  find  him.  As  for  the 
Charity  Organization,  it  has  most  probably  discarded  long 
ago  its  primitive  style  and  locality,  and  now  maybe  does 
its  good  work  from  some  more  palatial  institution  in 
the  remoter  islands  of  the  Pacific.  With  the  advance- 
ment of  civilization  things  are  carried  on  in  more  sumptu- 
ous style.  Indeed,  I  would  not  be  surprised  to  hear 
that  the  new  Charity  Organization  Hermitage,  that  wel- 
comes the  homeless  derelicts  who  have  flown  in  haste 
from  the  western  cities,  has  a  gilded  dome  and  spire 
peeping  from  a  solitary  forest  of  some  remote  isle  of 
the  southern  seas.  Possibly  a  secret  cable  runs  under 
the  Pacific,  running  straight  from  its  guarding  seclusion, 
sending  out  warnings  to  its  prospective  proteges.  In- 
deed, even  in  those  far-off  days,  Bones'  establishment 
at  Fiji  had  depots  that  extended  to  the  extreme  points 
of  the  civilized  world.  And  it  was  marvellous  how 
often  the  keen  surveillants  of  the  Australian  seaboard 
cities  were  baffled  in  their  search  for  missing  bank-man- 
agers, etc.  So  wags  the  world,  things  only  apparently 
changing  as  one  age  appears  to  differ  from  another  age. 
It  is  only  the  hearts  of  men  that  remain  the  same,  as 
the  centuries  pass  and  fashions  change,  so  that  men  may 
open  their  doors  inwards  instead  of  outwards,  and  so 
sit  and  dream  that  the  moral  codes  of  the  world  have 
become  reversed.  Even  my  rose-coloured  spectacles  re- 
main the  same;  though  they  have  become  somewhat 
dimmed,  I  can  still  fix  them  on  and  gaze  with  hopeful 
eyes  on  the  wondrous  pageant  of  life  that  moves  with  me 
along  the  great  vagabond  track.  And  many  times  have 


RETROSPECT  349 

I  sought  to  lend  them  to  sad  men  and  women  who  stag- 
gered beside  me,  yes,  as  they  stared  blindly  through  their 
bits  of  smoky  glass.  But  sometimes  I  shiver  with  dread 
at  the  possibility  that  I  may  some  day  grow  wise  and 
restrained,  and  no  longer  love  fairy-tales,  fallen,  sinful 
men,  and  beautiful  women  of  four  years  old.  And  so 
I  often  rekindle  my  camp-fire  and  sit  alone,  so  that  I 
may  hear  the  forest  trees  singing  overhead.  It  is  then 
that  O'Hara  comes  back  out  of  the  shadows;  and,  as 
I  play  my  violin,  sings  some  rollicking  Irish  song.  And, 
strange  as  it  may  appear  to  some,  when  the  log  fire  is 
burning  low,  a  misty  pageant  passes  before  my  eyes. 
One  by  one  my  old  tribal  poets,  attired  in  all  the  primitive 
majesty  of  tattoo  and  tapu-robes,  stalk  by  me,  and  pass 
silently  down  the  moonlit  banyan  groves.  'Tis  then  that 
the  call  comes  again;  for  I  am  the  doomed  rolling  stone 
that  gathered  the  magical  moss  of  these  memoirs  and 
all  that  has  made  me  know  how  little  men  are,  and 
humbly  realize  that  I  have  chanced  to  live  universally 
instead  of  only  roaming  in  my  boots  over  the  wide  spaces 
of  this  beautiful  world.  In  this  wise  I  have  found  and 
placed  carefully  down  any  little  campfire-gleams  of  in- 
terest which  my  book  may  possess,  as  well  as  having 
found  my  religion  in  some  sorrow  of  the  eternity  of  all 
things  past.  I  still  jog  along,  carrying  my  staff  and 
my  violin,  and  weighted  swag  of  dreams,  as  I  roam  along 
the  forest  track.  And,  though  I  have  many  years  to 
travel  ere  I  become  old,  I  can  say  in  the  deeper  sense 
of  its  meaning: 

There's  not  a  flower  along  the  wild  hillside, 

Or  song-bird  of  the  woods  that  sang  and  died, 

But  it  has  kinship  with  the  winds  that  blow 

O'er  memory's  forest  trees  of  long  ago. 

And  not  a  beggar  in  the  distant  lands 

But  I  am  with  him,  heart  and  soul  and  hands — 

To  help  him  carry  his  old  swag  of  dreams 


350  SOUTH  SEA  FOAM 

In  some  great  twinship  of  our  shattered  schemes; 
As  deep  within  my  heart  I  hear  the  chime 
Of  night  winds  tolling  all  the  bells  of  Time — 
In  some  old  belfry  of  the  stars  they  ring 
The  songs  the  dead  men  dream  and  cannot  sing. 

Even  the  bluest,  grandest  ocean  of  the  world  exists 
in  my  mind  only  as  some  deep,  solemn  hymning  that 
tells  the  briefness  of  mortal  existence.  Sometimes,  when 
I  hear  the  wind  blow  in  the  night,  my  thoughts  go  flying 
out  to  the  wide  Pacific  that  heaves  under  the  stars,  and 
is,  to  me,  the  vast,  wandering  grave  wherein  ill-fated 
Soogy,  the  native  child,  sleeps. 


THE  END 


A     000376159    o 


